


A Holy Trinity

by H_Lee_Trinity



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Abuse, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Bullying, Comics, Divorce, Drug Use, Fall Out Boy Lyrics, Gay, Gen, Graphic Sex, Grief, High School, Inspired by Music, M/M, Music, Panic At The Disco (Band), Profanity, Sexual Content, Weed, fall out boy - Freeform, my chemical romance - Freeform, pan-sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 85,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H_Lee_Trinity/pseuds/H_Lee_Trinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The characters are literally the bands, not the band members...</p><p>Frankie Owens-Bard, a comic and punk loving teenager, starts his sophomore year at Trinity High School where he meets the melodramatic rich kid, Patrick Dizco and anarchist artist, Michael Romanci.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Faces of Failure

**Author's Note:**

> Main characters based on the bands Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance and Panic! At the Disco.
> 
> Obviously I don't own any of the lyrics used.
> 
> Updates will come fairly regularly. I'm currently on chapter 20 but will probably post chapters days apart.

Frankie wasn’t that into the dingy off-white color of his family’s new home. It was compact and cheap-looking, with one window slapped on the front like an afterthought. But the cork tree in the yard was nice. It almost gave him hope for the new town. 

Elisa and Oliver were already making themselves known to the neighbors. They laughed and screamed, running around the yard with “swords” made from branches of the cork tree. Frankie bit his lip to hide a grin as Elisa pulled Oliver to the ground. She was always the stronger twin, even when they were babies, stealing each other’s apple sauce.

“Elisa, Oliver! No blood or you’re both in time-out!” Frankie’s mom called weakly from behind the huge box she was carrying. Frankie ran over to help her.

His mom sighed as he took the box, “I swear, Frankie, if we could funnel the energy from those two, we’d never pay electric bills again.”

Frankie chuckled, “They’re just messing around, mom. They’re like young volcanoes. Maybe if they explode now, they’ll go to bed early tonight.”

Laughing, his mother leaned, stretching her back and looked at her son. She smiled at him. Gradually, however, the smile faded from her eyes and her lips held still in their forced happiness. It was what Frankie called “The Look”: a genuine smile gently retrieving into bitter-sweet memories. He knew when she smiled like that, she was thinking of his father. 

“Come on, mom!” Frankie clapped suddenly. “Let’s go check out the new digs, eh? I hear there’s an excellent view of the neighbor’s house from our living room.”

His mother rolled her tired eyes and groaned, “Remind me to get curtains.”

“Brat One and Brat Two,” Frankie yelled as he scooped his brother and sister up under each arm, “Come help your mom unpack the plates.” He kicked open the front door and dropped them on the floor inside. His mother followed, placing a cigarette between her teeth.

The next morning, Frankie awoke to what sounded like a mariachi band playing in the neighbor’s bathroom. Annoyed, he lifted himself to a sitting position and pulled open his blinds. A naked Mexican man was showering his very hairy body in the house next door. He sang lively Spanish in a piercing falsetto. 

When the man noticed him peeping, Frankie smiled, saluted, and shut the blinds. He stretched his arms up and yawned, “Thanks for the memories, man.”

Frankie gathered his clothes for the day from still unpacked boxes: white v-neck t-shirt, worn, black jeans and his leather jacket with reading glasses tucked safely in the front pocket. His shoes were the same old converse sneakers that hadn’t been popular since 2007 and he topped it off with his dad’s old black hat.

“Ready to go, gremlins?” Frankie asked his siblings. He leaned down to help a hopeless Oliver tie his shoes.

His mother was frantic, as was the usual morning routine. She sped around the room grabbing random papers, and turning off appliances. “Remember Frankie, the kids’ school bus is number 7. It comes at the end of the block. If you leave right after the kids get on the bus, you shouldn’t be late at all.”

“Relax mom, I know the drill.” 

“After the secretary job, I have just enough time to grab the kids from the after school program and drop them here. You have to be home by six, don’t forget, to watch the kids. Because I leave right away for the library gig, you know, I’ll be sorting books and shi- stuff until ten.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frankie waved his mother off. She stuffed a piece of toast in her mouth and stumbled out the door. Frankie’s mom was always working at least two jobs since his dad died. The only thing different about this town was now the little kids were in school, not being babysat by whatever neighbor was willing.

After checking to make sure the kids had everything they needed (juice boxes – check, glue sticks – check, crayola - check) Frankie locked up the house and watched their terrified faces in the window of their school bus as it drove away.

Walking to school was definitely a new concept for Frankie. At all his other schools, he had taken the city bus or the train or sometimes the train and the bus. But it wasn’t so bad, with his ipod in one hand and a banana in the other, it was actually pretty enjoyable. 

By the time Frankie arrived at Trinity High School, he had received more than a couple odd looks and as he watched the students waiting outside for the morning bell, he was starting to think his wardrobe was a bit too... flashy for the occasion. But no matter, the bell rang and student poured into the building. Frankie pulled out his schedule, folded a million times to fit in his tight jeans, and studied it as he walked up the concrete stairs. 

Out of nowhere, a gust of wind wrapped around him. Frankie held tight to his schedule but his father’s hat jumped off his head and into a nearby bush. 

“Crap!” Frankie mumbled and ran down the stairs to get it. Glancing back as the last students walked through the doors, he wondered if he could claim he couldn’t find his classroom as a reason for being late.

“Ughhhh,” Frankie jogged to the bushes and, squeezing past them, found his hat at the end of the row of shrubbery. He turned around and began stomping his way out when his foot stepped on something soft.

His face plunged into the dirt and his body landed on whatever tripped him. 

“Gah! What the fuck!” 

Someone smaller and much louder than Frankie was wiggling around under him.

“Get off me, pig!”

Frankie hopped to his feet as quickly as he could. “Sorry, man. I didn’t see you.”

The guy Frankie had tripped over was sitting on the ground. His long, choppy black hair was a mess and his dark eyes screamed murder. He held a Menthol cigarette and was dressed head to toe in black. Black shirt, black jeans, black sneakers and a black blazer that strongly reminded Frankie of his mother’s blazer.

“What are you staring at, you fuck? Another cog in the murder machine, aren’t we? Go back to class, Hitler!” The boy sneered, his lips curled back in a nasty expression.

Unfazed by the unusual yelling, Frankie examined his face and decided this guy was one of those very attractive angry people that could easily pass as female or male.

“Are you wearing a woman’s blazer?” he asked.

The response was spat back, “Are you wearing a leather jacket, huh? Baby biker boy?”

Frankie suppressed his urge to laugh. “What’s a murder machine?”

“You wouldn’t know, would you?” A very dramatic eye roll, “They’re ripping your aspirations to shreds, cleaning up your looks and teaching you lies from their books. It’s to make a ‘citizen’ out of you.”

From the look on his comrade’s face, Frankie guessed a ‘citizen’ was not a good thing to be. He cleared his throat, cutting off a chuckle midway through his mouth. “Uh, yeah. Good to know. My name’s Frankie, by the way. I’m new. Frankie Owens-Bard.”

“I don’t give a shit who you-“

“Michael Romanci!” A shout erupted from the window above them. They looked up to see a heavily made-up woman with a tense look on her face.

“You put that damn cigarette out and get in this classroom right now! I’m giving you one warning today and that’s it!” A collection of teenage giggles was heard from behind her.  
Michael snarled.

“And you!” The woman’s finger jutted out from the window and pointed at Frankie. “Go to class before I find out who you are and tell your homeroom teacher exactly where you’ve been the past fifteen minutes!”

Frankie picked up his bag and brushed the dust from his jeans. He looked down at his new peer and grinned, “Well, have a nice day, Michael.”

Michael growled. Frankie was beginning to think the kid mainly spoke in animal noises.

A few minutes later while standing outside his classroom and reviewing his schedule, Frankie had an unfortunate realization. The woman who had just been shouting at him from the window was his homeroom and math teacher. 

‘Just my luck,’ he thought and opened the door.

“Ah! I see we have been graced by the presence of a new trouble-maker!” The woman announced as Frankie slide into an open seat near the door. “Class, this is Frankie Owens-Bard. He’s a student from North Mountain High,” She adjusted her glasses and focused on him, “Don’t cause trouble in my class. I won’t tolerate it.”

“S-sorry, ma’am. The road outside my house is paved with good intentions.” Frankie said sheepishly. The classroom was filled with hushed words. Frankie could feel the students' eyes burning holes in the back of his neck.

Thankfully, Michael chose this time to come through the door, swinging a black messenger bag from his shoulder. The class’ attention swiftly turned to him.

“Ah, Romanci! You chose to show up! Good, good. Now cough up the cigarettes or choose a worse fate.”

Michael threw his hands up defiantly and began arguing, “I only had the one! You can’t search me, I have rights! This is not a police state! Why are these pigs always after me…”

Frankie tuned out and looked to the clock. It was only fifteen until nine. God, this day was going to trail on forever. He lost himself in a glazed over daydream while Michael fought with the teacher when he heard a faint, strange sound. Frankie turned around.

“Sit tight, I’m gonna need you to keep time. Come just snap, snap, snap your fingers for me.” The kid behind him was singing softly while reading what looked like sheet music on his desk.

Frankie raised an eyebrow, amused. He held up his hand and started quietly snapping his fingers to an imaginary song.

The kid looked up and grinned a full set of pearly whites. He had mousy brown hair and appeared to be wearing a thin line of eyeliner. “Good, good, now we’re making some progress. Come on just tap, tap, tap your toes to the beat.” He sang again.

Frankie snickered and started tapping his feet.

“Gentlemen, this is not a Broadway production! This is algebra!”

Both teens hid their laughter in their hands.

“My name’s Patrick Dizco. Stage name – Disco, spelled like the music.” Patrick grinned again and folded his hands on his desk. He was wearing silver rings on nearly every finger.

“It’s a pleasure.” Frankie said in a teasing tone and pretended to bow.

“Diva Dizco,” Someone whispered, mockingly. A few people heard and laughed.

Patrick frowned momentarily but then he smiled again and winked at Frankie, “They’ve got that right.”

Frustrated and beaten, Michael huffed loudly and stomped to a seat in the back of room. Frankie saw a pile of confiscated items on the teacher’s desk.   
Frankie heard Patrick sigh and continue his quiet music rehearsal.

Looking at the clock again and then to Michael and to Patrick, who were also straining to see the time, Frankie smiled. ‘Misery loves company,’ he thought, ‘And the best of us can find happiness in misery.’


	2. You’re Never Gonna Fit in Much, Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frankie tries his hand at friend-making.

With his back to the rough bark of the cork tree, Frankie strummed on his dad’s beat-up Stratocaster. He plucked each string sweetly and let his mind wander. The sun sat low in the sky and cast an orange tone over the streets.

“Frankiiiiiiiie!” 

The peaceful quiet shattered around him. “What, Oliver?”

His baby siblings were laying on the grass near him, crayons in hand and half-drawn, grass-stained homework pressed into the ground.

“What color was Daddy’s hair?” Oliver asked. In his fist he clutched one brown and one yellow crayon.

Frankie felt a twinge in his chest. He shoved it down to his stomach and blamed hunger. “His hair was blonde, like yours and Elisa’s. And he had glasses.”

“Like yours!” Elisa pointed out in a yell. It was difficult for her to speak without yelling.

“Yeah, like mine. Are you two almost done with your work?”

Oliver nodded, “All I have to do is draw Daddy and I’m done.” He held up his family portrait for Frankie to see. His mother was drawn in a business suit with a frown. Frankie was drawn in a pink dress. 

“Why is Frankie in a dress, stupid? Frankie is a boy!” Elisa shouted at him.

“He wore a dress that one time! ‘Member?” Oliver shot back.

‘Oh, right,’ Frankie thought, grimacing. It was last year and a different city. A group of seniors called him a girl so the next day Frankie showed up in a fuchsia silk dress and   
combat boots. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Elisa looked back down at her picture and began coloring over her drawing of Frankie with a pink crayon, the beginnings of an outfit replacement. “Did you meet big kid friends at school, Frankie?” 

“As a matter of fact, I did, chickie,” Frankie smiled, “I met a vampire and a mime.”

“A vampire!?” Oliver shrieked.

“A mime!?” Elisa cried.

“Yup!” Frankie strummed a few cords on his guitar. “Blood, blood, gallons of the stuff! Give them all that they can drink and it will never be enough!”

Elisa and Oliver joined the song, “So give them blood, blood, blood! Grab a glass because there’s going to be a flood!”

With a satisfied sigh, Frankie stood up, guitar in hand. “Let’s go inside and order pizza. Okay, guys?”

“Okay!” the kids excitedly gathered their art supplies.

Elisa pressed her homework to her chest and looked up at Frankie, “Do mimes suck blood?”

“Sometimes,” Frankie said, he held open the front door for the twins.

“Frankie, did the vampire suck on your blood?” Oliver asked.

Frankie shook his head, “This one just sucks on Menthol.”

The next day at school, Frankie walked to the center table in the cafeteria. There were two girls and two guys sitting around the table, laughing. The girls were drinking mineral water and the guys, Gatorade. But Frankie liked the spikes on one of the girl’s headbands and the bigger-looking dude had on a band t-shirt that Frankie recognized. So he sat down at the table.

“Hey, what’s up, fellow teens?”

The two girls looked at him and started cracking up. 

“What a weird thing to say,” one half-whispered to the other while staring right into Frankie’s eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?” The big guy asked. His tone was indifferent. 

Frankie snapped his bottle of Coke open and responded, “My name’s Frankie. And I’ve been dying to tell you anything you want to hear.”

The teens glanced at each other. 

“Think you’re pretty smooth, huh?” The girl was the headband asked. She had rusty red hair that was straightened flat and wispy.

“That’s just who I am this week.” Frankie smiled. ‘This is going well,’ He thought.

“Well,” the other girl said, leaning back in her plastic chair. Her eyes were a strange muddy green and her blonde hair was artificially tight-curled. Her eyelashes were so caked with mascara there were flakes of black on the top of her cheeks. “You’re cute and all but you talk like you’re Oscar Wilder or somebody.”

‘Oscar Wilde,’ Frankie mentally corrected her. Perhaps this wasn’t the right group after all.

“Do you know how many animals had to die to make that vest?” Red Hair asked, snippily. She glared at Frankie’s faux leather vest and white t-shirt. 

“It’s fake sooo…none? Besides chickie, I’m just trying to save rock and roll, you know?” 

The girl made a disgusted face.

“Bev, it’s the freak, Romanci!” The smaller guy nudged her.

Michael Romanci was wearing black skinny jeans again. He also wore a button up black collared shirt and had his hair tied in a teeny ponytail on the back of his head. Long locks of his hair had already fallen out around his face.

As he strolled past the group, he was looking forward, not down. So when Red Hair jutted her foot clad in cowboy boots out in his path, Michael immediately fell. His tray of food crashed facedown along with him.

The table of teens burst into laughter. Michael scrambled up, his hair more disheveled than usual, his jeans now had a hole in the knee. His face was so filled with anger, it made   
Frankie flash back to his mother’s face when she caught him smoking weed in his room.

“Problem, freak?” The blonde asked with a too-sweet smile. The bigger boy cracked his knuckles and stood up.

“We all go to hell,” Michael hissed, gesturing to the whole room. His eyes were so narrowed, his lashes entwined. They were the length and color the blonde had attempted to imitate with makeup. “And right now, they’re building a coffin your size.”

The bell rang.

The guy scoffed then smiled at Michael. He walked past, knocking into him with his shoulder.

Frankie got up and went over to Michael. He picked up his messenger bag and held it out to the furious teen.

Michael snatched it out of his hands. He glared at him and whispered, “They’ll find a place for you.” 

Frankie stood, speechless for once. He was the last one out of the cafeteria.

He was feeling tense as he shuffled to French. The words Michael said to him hung in his brain and even though Frankie had done nothing to him, he couldn’t help but feel badly. 

He stopped in front of the water fountain near the boy’s bathroom to drink. 

“Stare at me again, fag, and it’ll be worse.”

‘What?’ Frankie jerked up and turned around, fists ready, but there was no one behind him.

“This is what you get when you eyeball me!”

“Wash your hands when you’re done, Tyler. Or you’ll catch the gay, haha.”

The conversation was coming from the bathroom. Frankie would hear water splashing and struggling. He bolted in.

One guy was standing guard near the door. He was small with splotchy skin. Frankie easily shoved past him as he cried out, “Hey! Get out!”

The other boy, not much bigger than the first, was leaning over the toilet, a handful of Patrick’s hair, forcing him down into the toilet. Frankie could hear him choking and   
gagging.

“Get off him now!” Frankie clutched the guy’s hand, ripping off Patrick. Patrick fell back against the stall, coughing up toilet water. His eyes were red and fearful.

The guy that had been holding Patrick down ran out of the stall and almost out of the room. He looked back just once. Frankie stepped towards him, “Where’d the party go, huh?”

And the kid split.

“Are you okay?” Frankie helped Patrick stand up. He was trembling. His hair and the front of his shirt were damp.

“Y-yeah,” Patrick coughed again and Frankie got him so paper towels.

“They, uh, they messed up my gorgeous face,” Patrick said between chokes. He gave Frankie a weak grin. Frankie hadn’t noticed the black eye darkening on his classmate’s face. 

“I don’t really care.” Patrick continued. “But um,” He waved to the floor where torn up pieces of his sheet music lay. He bit his lip and looked ready to cry.

“I’m sorry… I can help you tape them back together.” Frankie’s gut wrenched for his new friend. “My dad used to say, ‘Sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger.’”

“That’s good advice.” Patrick smiled then shook his wet hair, determination gleaming in his eyes. “In a few years, I’ll be on top of the world. The new cancer. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have makeup to apply.” He pulled a stick of black eyeliner from his bag.

Frankie laughed, “Won’t that hurt your eye?”

“Beauty is pain, my fine friend. And pain is beauty….. Hey! Do you want to come to drama club after school? It would be cool to have an audience for once. You can critique my jazz hands.”

“Sure,” Frankie grinned. “But I have to leave before six.”

“Great! I’ll have my driver take you home, I’ll spike the punch!” Patrick threw open his arms and clamped Frankie down in a hug. “See you then.”


	3. Douse the Lights!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some vampires need garlic to survive.

Frankie was sitting on the wooden floor of the stage, cross-legged and adorned with his reading glasses. Pieces of Patrick’s sheet music were spread out in front of him. One piece caught his eye and he grabbed it, matching it up with the page in his hand. He taped the two together where the words connected.

“Douse the lights!” Patrick yelled to the chubby stoner stationed at the control center of the theater. The room went black.

“Pay attention to the key change, Frankie, and tell me if I’ve got it down!” Patrick’s voice called out in the darkness.

Frankie set down his project and pocketed his glasses.

A spotlight beamed on Patrick in his ruffled white shirt, suspenders, and vest. His chin rose slowly and dramatically and the woman at the piano began playing. 

“Please, leave all overcoats, canes and top hats with the doorman from that moment you’ll be out of place and under-dressed.” Patrick sang out. He tapped his prop cane to the song and circled around it.

“I’m wrecking this evening already and… loving every minute of it! Ruining this banquet for the mildly inspiring!” 

Patrick jumped on the table in the middle of the stage; the seated high school actors gave each other faux shocked faces and brought their hands to their cheeks as though they were traumatized by the scene.

“Haven’t you heard that I’m the New Cancer? I’ve never looked better and you can’t stand it!” He kicked a fake crystal glass around the stage and Frisbee-ed some plates against the curtains.

Frankie covered his mouth to laugh. The play the drama club members were rehearsing was written by Patrick. And it was almost as fantastical and elaborate as he was. Almost.

Patrick abruptly stopped his performance and whirled around to Frankie. “So? Was I on beat? I need a musician’s opinion.”

Frankie had told Patrick about his guitar playing and Pat was now treating him like the new Jimmy Hendrix because of it.

“And what am I, dead?” The woman at the piano teased Patrick. She had intricately drawn on eyebrows and short curly hair. She was Ms. Palmer, the drama teacher, introduced to   
Frankie by Patrick with the highest respects. According to Patrick, Ms. Palmer truly “gets it”.

“Who killed Amanda Palmer?” She asked, standing up from the piano chair and looking around her for answers. “I must be dead if the great Patrick Dizco no longer wants my advice as a musician.”

Patrick rolled his made-up eyes. “Of course, I care, Ms. Palmer but you’ve seen this production since day one and I need fresh eyes! The play is premiering tomorrow!”

“I think you were on beat, Pat” Frankie spoke up. “It was very cool.”

Patrick studied Frankie’s face then accepted his answer. He jumped off the table and went to join him on the floor.

“So,” Patrick began. He pulled his legs and set his chin on the jean fabric. “Why’d you move here, anyway? This town doesn’t have a lot to offer to a budding musician.”

“My mom was offered a good job,” Frankie replied. “And she thought a smaller town would be better to raise kids. Since my dad died, we’ve always been moving around. Mostly in the same city. I don’t think my mom wanted to move away from there. It’s where she met my dad and all. But things change. She couldn’t afford city life.”

“That’s horrible,” Frankie knew Patrick was staring at him, eyes filled with sympathy. He hated that look. 

“Yeah, well. People die. People work. Get busy living or get busy dying, right?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Frankie waited it out, hoping Patrick would change the subject, and he did.

“Are you friends with Beverly and her crew now or were you sitting at their table today to gather vital information about the school’s workings?”

Frankie laughed loudly, shaking his head, “What?”

“You were sitting with a group of upperclassmen today. The red-haired girl is named Beverly Golding. The blonde is Sarah Silvano and the two guys are Joe Boroughs and Max Orwell.”

“Oh, right” Frankie mumbled. “No, I’m not friends with them. I sat down to…” He smirked to himself. “Gather information.”

“Good!” Patrick snorted, “Because those girls are foul. Joe and Max would be okay if they weren’t so vacant. They’re easily influenced, I think. But Beverly is always picking at things she doesn’t understand. She has no personality so when someone else does, she attacks. She’s especially horrible to Michael. Not so much me anymore. She’s gotten over her jealousy of my stage presence…”

“Michael, you mean the kid she tripped in the cafeteria today? She’s always a bitch to him?”

“Pretty much,” Patrick nodded, “But Michael’s not me. He doesn’t ignore those types of things. That’s why he always gets in trouble. If somebody picks a fight with him, he fights back and then he’s usually the one to suffer the consequences. Teachers look at kids like them and kids like Michael and assume he starts it.”

Patrick exhaled and looked up to the stage lights blaring down. “Michael’s an artist. People don’t get that. He’s a true and suffering artist with eyes the size of the moon and a dark heart tortured with all the pain of the world. He’s alone because he needs to be. He needs to focus on that darkness and create with it. Michael is-”

Frankie cleared his throat, “Uh, Patrick? Are you quite finished swooning?” 

Patrick looked to Frankie and grinned, a dimple pinching his right cheek, “I wouldn’t mind being his muse. Nope. Wouldn’t mind it at all.

“Frankie-boy!” Ms. Palmer leapt onto the stage. “You asked me to remind you when it gets to be 5:30. It’s 5:32.”

“Thanks, Ms. Palmer.”

Patrick’s driver was parked outside the school in a black Rolls Royce. Frankie slid onto the leather seats in shock, terrified to touch anything for fear it would break and he’d owe Patrick his family’s life-savings. The car made absolutely no noise when it glided from the parking space and made it’s way to Frankie’s neighborhood.

“This car’s so nice, I’m afraid to sit in it, haha,” Frankie joked.

Patrick frowned and looked out the window, “You should come to my house sometime. It’ll make you afraid to breathe.”

Nodding in understanding, Frankie mused aloud, “How cruel is the golden rule, when the lives we lead are only golden-plated.”

“Exactly,” He spoke softly then perked up, “Do you want to come to see “The New Cancer” tomorrow? I mean, you don’t have to but my parents are going to be there for once and you could bring your family.”

“Sounds awesome. I’ll bring my little brother and sister.”

Patrick smiled, brimming with excitement. “My driver can pick you guys up!”

The next day was a Friday and his mother’s first day off of both jobs since moving. Frankie spent two hours after school cleaning the house while she took the twins to their   
parent-teacher conference. When she returned, she saw Frankie with a mop and broom and tears collected in her eyes.

“Alright,” She sniffed. She held a Kleenex to her eye. “What do you want? Money? A dog?”

“Nothing, mom,” Frankie hugged her. “I thought maybe I could take the kids to a school play tonight. That way you can catch up on that not-kid-friendly Netflix show you like so much. You know, the one with the cussing and the lesbian sex?”

His mother grew red in the face. “It’s educational. It’s about women’s prisons.”

“Okay, but there’s definitely a lot of sex it in-“

“Fine, fine! You can go. But,” She shook her head, “I don’t want you guys walking from school in the dark. How will you get home? Do you want me to pick you up? What time?”

“Actually, I’m friend with the lead character and he offered us a ride. He has a driver… and a Rolls Royce.” Frankie crossed his arms, pleased with the look on his mom’s face.

“Oooo,” She said, eyebrows arching, “Better marry her.”

Frankie jumped a little at the sound of a shrill car horn in his driveway. “Elisa, Oliver! We’re going to see a play! Get your shoes back on!”

As Frankie herded the twins into the car, he glanced back at his mom in the doorway. “Later, mom! Have fun watching girl-on-girl action!” And he smiled wide as he watched his mom’s eyes rolled and she slammed the door shut.

Frankie turned out to be very impressed with Patrick’s play. He knew the songs and the storyline from the afternoon spend in drama club but he was especially surprised with how captivated Elisa and Oliver were the entire time. They didn’t complain and they didn’t fall asleep. They didn’t get scared any of the numerous times Patrick shouted to “douse the lights”. And in fact, after the curtains closed and Patrick came out to bow, the twins seemed disappointed that the show was over.

However when Patrick finished bowing, Frankie watched him scan through the audience. He never lost his stage-smile but Frankie could tell something upset him. After the crowd dispersed, he and his siblings found Patrick in the dressing room.

“Hey,” Patrick mumbled as he stuffed various articles of clothing into a black bag. His tone was flat.

“Hey man, you were so good! I loved the eye patch bit.” Frankie had chuckled a little when Patrick waltzed on stage wearing a purple, jeweled eye patch over the black eye his peers had given him just the day before. The kid knew how to be stylish even in the worst of conditions. “The sibs and I gave you a standing ovation, didja see?” He continued, overly enthusiastic.

“You were so cool!” Oliver yelled.

Elisa frantically agreed, “Yeah, yeah! And when you threw those dishes and poisoned the bad people? I wish I could do that!”

Frankie glanced back at Elisa, concerned. 

Patrick tried for a grin, “So you’re the infamous Owens-Bard twins, ay? If you want I can teach you babies the dance moves to the finale sometime.”

“Okay!”

“But we’re not babies!”

Patrick pinched his pant legs and curtsied, “It’s a term of endearment, my love. Forgive me.”

Frankie reached out and touched Patrick’s arm, “Hey, uh, what’s up? You seem pretty low for someone who gave an Oscar-winning performance.”

Patrick scowled and looked down, “It would win a Tony, not an Oscar. And anyway… my parents didn’t show.”

He turned his back to Frankie and the twins, looking in the dressing room mirror. He removed the eye patch and pressed his fingers gently to the wound.

“My driver’s waiting outside for me. He came backstage to say that my dad was in a meeting and my mom lost track of time. It’s probably more likely that my dad is humping his rosary-wearing secretary and my mom is giving a blow-job to her lawyer in some seedy, unappealing hotel.”

“Ah,” Frankie searched his brain for the right words to say, “You know, Patrick, you are what you love. Not who loves you. All that matters tonight is you were doing what you love.   
If your folks can’t find the time to support you, you don’t need their support.”

Shaking his head, Patrick gave him a genuine smile, “I guess you’re right. I kind of knew they wouldn’t show anyway.”

“What’s a blowjob?” Oliver tugged on Frankie’s sleeve expectantly.

“Well, well! Looks like it’s time to go!” Frankie laughed.

“Wait,” Patrick chewed on his lip uncomfortably. He looked at Frankie’s brother and sister then looked to Frankie. “I reserved a table at this local Italian restaurant for after the show. It was going to be for me and my parents. So they could shower me with praise.” He shrugged sheepishly. “Do you and your babies want to come? I’ll pay and you can shower me with praise instead.”

“I suppose it’ll be fine. My mom will welcome some more alone time. She’s at home watching this weird comedy show about woman having sex in prison.”

Patrick squealed so loudly Frankie flinched, “I love that show! Come on; let’s leave this place to rot!”

The Bella Vida appeared to Frankie like your average half-a-star Italian joint with forest green booths, black tape holding the stuffing in, and crimson tablecloths decorated with dark, unidentifiable stains.

The place was empty except for Frankie, Patrick and the twins and an elderly couple seated near the kitchen. He was pretty sure the husband was sleeping in his lasagna so Frankie couldn’t imagine why Patrick had gone to the trouble of reserving a table. After they arrived, they waited ten minutes before a blonde pregnant woman seated them.

“Your waiter will be with you shortly,” She grumbled, handing each person a laminated menu.

Patrick grinned feverishly, “Thanks so much, Diane.”

“Meh.” The woman walked away.

Frankie leaned back in the sagging booth and observed Patrick suspiciously as he bounced around, barely glancing at the menu in front of him.

“Come here often, I see.”

Patrick froze then smiled innocently. “Maybe… I like the food.”

It was then the waiter trudged up to their table- a teeny, black ponytail and a familiar annoyed expression.

“Welcome to the Bella Morte. My name is Michael and I will be your server this evening.”

Michael was dressed in a white collared shirt and black slacks. A dirty, red apron was tied around his waist. It had a nametag pinned to it complete with Michael’s name and the name “Bella Vida” above it.

Frankie took in the sight of him and turned to Patrick, his grin filling his face. “Hey Michael, didn’t know you worked here.” Frankie’s eyes bore into Patrick as he causally sunk deeper and deeper into the booth.

Michael glared, as if his face had any other emotion, and asked, “Where’re your friends, huh? You come here to harass me and don’t bring your backup crew? Well, you’re running after something that you’ll never kill so go ahead.”

“I’m not friends with those people from lunch,” Frankie said quickly but Michael huffed, disbelieving.

He mockingly retorted, “You think you’ve got choir boys around you.”

“I think we’ll all have the special.” Patrick piped up, trying to appear collected. “The spaghetti with garlic bread. And I’d like a virgin peach and lime daiquiri, please.” He looked up at Michael and batted his eyes.

Michael stared at him. After a moment he snorted a short 'whatever' and swirled around to the kitchen.

“Whew! The tension in this establishment! Honestly Frankie, I wouldn’t have brought you along if I knew you’d hurt my chances with him.” Patrick gestured to the kitchen.

“Ha! Don’t blame me. You’re the one stalking a person who’s clearly insane.”

“Not insane,” Patrick replied calmed. “Misunderstood genius, an elegant crime, a delicate rose in a city of thorns.”

“Oh yeah, Pat? So what’s that make you?”

Before Patrick could defend his behavior, Michael returned balancing a tray of food in each hand. With the time it took for the kitchen to cook this meal, Frankie could almost guarantee it was microwaved.

He placed a plate in front of Patrick then each of the twins. For Frankie, he dropped his plate from a couple inches above the table, splattering sauce on Frankie’s coat. He turned to Michael with a condescending smile and wiped himself with his napkin.

“Anything else, your highness?”

“Nope,” Frankie put his elbows on the table. “I think we’re good.”

Michael suddenly furred his dark eyebrows in confusion and studied Frankie’s head, “Are you wearing a Fedora in a restaurant?”

“What?” Frankie defensively brought his hands to his dad’s hat, perched as usual on his head. “No! For your information, it’s a 1950s Homburg style Stetson hat.”

Michael smirked.

“It was our daddy’s. He died in it while he was waiting for the train.” Elisa said, poking at her spaghetti. “Are you a vampire? How come you can be around garlic if you’re a vampire, huh?” She pointed to her piece of limp garlic bread.

“Elisa…” Frankie warned.

But to his surprise Michael responded without missing a beat, “I’m an Italian vampire. We need garlic to survive.”

“Really?” Oliver asked breathlessly.

“Sure,” Michael shrugged. “See?” he picked up Frankie’s piece of bread and tore a bite out of it. 

Elisa and Oliver gasped happily. 

Michael tossed the bread back on Frankie’s plate.

Elisa was totally enthralled by Michael, “I like your ponytail!”

“I like yours. But don’t mouth off while wearing one, your mama’ll pull that little tail right outta your head.”

Elisa’s eyes grew wide with fear.

Patrick kicked Frankie gently under the table. When Frankie looked at him, he mouthed, ‘So good with children!’

Frankie rolled his eyes.

“Hey,” Michael addressed Frankie. He was thrown off by the neutral tone Michael was suddenly using. “I’m clocking off in twenty minutes so here’s your bill.” He laid a piece of receipt paper face down on the table.

Michael barely turned around when Patrick erupted in a yell, “Do you need a ride home!?”

And to Frankie’s shock and Patrick’s utter delight, Michael looked back and shrugged, “Sure.”

The Rolls Royce fit everyone comfortably but Michael had the same reaction to the car as Frankie did. He sat with his hands clasped in front of him and tried not to move.

“So Mikey, what’s your address?” Patrick asked. He had chosen to sit right next to him.

“My name is Michael. Not Mikey and not Mike or any other gay ass faggot names.” He responded.

Frankie frowned and came to Patrick’s defensive. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

Michael looked at him. “I don’t know. Is that what you think, Frank?”

“Ass is a bad word!” Oliver accused from across the car.

“No it’s not. It’s a donkey.”

“….. Faggot is a bad word!”

“A fag is a cigarette,” Michael unzipped the front pocket of his bag and retrieved a cartoon of Kool Menthols. He put one between his teeth and lit it.

“No smoking,” The driver said without turning around.

Michael took the cigarette out and crushed the lit end with his fingers.

There was silence.

“The corner of 4th and Fremont,” Michael gazed out the tinted window.

The apartments occupying the corner of 4th and Fremont looked like a decaying roach motel. There was even a glaring neon sign plastered on the outside that screamed   
“Vacancy”. It was something Frankie had only seen in movies until that point.

There was a scantily-clad, young woman with black hair and dark eyes like Michael’s sitting on the steps. She had a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.

“Is that your sister?” Frankie asked. Although the windows were tinted, Frankie felt like the woman was staring right at him.

“Psht,” Michael opened the door and got out. “That’s my mom.” He slammed the door without inviting them inside.

“Oh,” Frankie said, despite Michael not being there to hear him. As the car backed out of the parking lot, he watched Michael walk past his mother and into the building. She barely looked up from her drink.


	4. Collecting Bad Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys cut class and drink by a mausoleum.

It was a Saturday and Frankie could finally sleep in. His mom didn’t start work until six in the evening so she could entertain the twins and he had taken sleeping pills to block out the shower-singing of the Mexican next door. At least, that’s what Frankie had been hoping. What he didn’t plan was his mother bursting through his door at 8am, nearly ripping it off the hinges. 

Frankie sat up so quickly from his dreaming that his legs caught in his sheets and he tumbled to the ground. 

His mother began, using the voice she reserved for Big Trouble, “Frankie Edison Owen-Bard Jr., I would just love to hear your explanation for this one!”

“What did I do?” Frankie asked, wracking his brain for a list of recent evil deeds.

“Oliver and Elisa have been calling each other gay ass faggots all morning. When I asked them where they had heard these names, they claimed an Italian vampire told them it wasn’t bad language!”

Catching a giggle on his tongue, Frankie slapped a hand over his mouth. He felt his face turn red from lack of relief. Desperately, he pictured dead puppies, math tests, anything to stop the impeding laughter.

“Well!? Just WHAT kind of PLAY did you take them to see yesterday??”

Oh God. How would he talk himself out of this one? “Mom, I swear, the play was appropriate.” He coughed, “Mostly, I think. But after the play, we went to an Italian place to eat. The waiter was a kid from my school and he may have used a bit of unsavory language.”

His mom was beginning to lose the anger wrinkles around her eyes, but not entirely. “You had better explain to your little brother and sister that they cannot use hate language of any kind in this house… Hmph. And maybe I should call up the mother of this kid and tell her exactly what her child has been saying to his customers.”

Frankie panicked. He had just gotten back in the fragile and very conditional good graces of Michael. While he didn’t exactly want to have pajama parties with the guy, he didn’t want Michael to think badly of him again. “Mom, come on. It’s not that big a deal. I’ll talk to him, okay. I’ll remind him he could be fired if he curses around customers. He probably just wasn’t thinking.”

Frankie doubted Michael would care about being fired. He acted as if he wanted to be cut loose from the ‘Bella Morte’ as he called it. But the idea calmed his mother.

“Alright,” His mom sucked in a deep breath, “I know you’re a good kid, Frankie. You’ve been such a help raising Oliver and Elisa, more than you know, it’s just… sometimes I forgot you’re still just a teenager yourself. I shouldn’t dump all this responsibility on you.”

Frankie could feel his heart sinking in his chest. It was hard having any type of fight with his mom without her feeling guilty about their situation. Frankie wished sometimes she would just scream at him, ground him and leave. 

“So… you can go back to sleep again.” Frankie’s mom left, leaving the door partially open behind her.

‘Huh,’ Frankie thought to himself, looking around his messy room from the floor where he sat, ‘As if that’s going to happen.’

From beyond Frankie’s bedroom wall, he could hear the shrieking of water pipes and a deep baritone ringing out the beginning of a Spanish ballad. 

The rest of his weekend was fairly uneventful, just the way Frankie likes it. On Sunday, Patrick invited himself over and taught Elisa and Oliver how to do basic tap dancing. That night Frankie played guitar under his cork tree. Patrick listened sometimes or sang along, free verse style, about mansions and wealth and cheating lovers getting what they deserve. Frankie was starting to sense a theme.

“Did your parents love each other, Frankie?” Patrick had asked, laying on back and twisting a blade of grass in his fingers.

“Yeah,” Frankie stopped playing. “They did. My dad first saw my mom’s picture on the back of a pack of cigarette he had purchased from a bar. She worked at the bar, as a waitress, and the manager thought it would be good business to slap photos of all his female employees on the cigarettes they sold. My dad was there playing a gig with his band. Anyway, he saw the picture and looked into the audience and there she was. They talked and drank and well, nine months later, Frankie Jr. comes along.” He smiled.

“How romantic,” Patrick gripped the blade of grass to his heart.

“What about your parents? They must’ve liked each other at one point.”

Patrick frowned and tossed the grass aside. “My parents meet at a country club. My mom saw his diamond studded cufflinks and decided she would marry him.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it. What a wonderful caricature of intimacy, right? They got together because of old money; they stay together for new money.”

On Monday, Frankie was sitting alone on the bleachers during gym when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the coach, who was stalking around the basketball hoop, a Bluetooth headset strapped to his ear. Frankie flipped open his phone.

“I’m ditching Spanish. Wanna come with? Meet me outside the school in five. Get busy living or get busy dying! <3 <3 -Patrick” The text read.

Frankie grinned happily. He stood up, strolled past the teacher and into the locker room where he dressed back into his gray, ripped jeans and long-sleeved shirt. He didn’t know how long Patrick planned on being out so on his way outside; he grabbed his hat, jacket, and backpack from his locker.

The front doors of the school were not locked and there was no security. This was one of the few upsides to moving to a smaller town, when Frankie skipped from his other high schools, his plans needed to be written on blueprints and self-destructing notes.

But at Trinity High School, he waltzed out the door like he owned the place.

The sun was high and hot in the sky but an enjoyable cool breeze tangled around the trees and Frankie’s body as he walked down the steps. Frankie paused at the bottom of the stairs and leaned against the railing. Patrick’s Spanish class was at the other end of the school; he would have to wait for him. 

“Hey,” A voice called out from the bushes. Frankie looked in the direction of a cloud of cigarette smoke but he recognized the voice without the face.

“Hello, Michael-not-Mikey-or-Mike-or-any-other-gay-ass-faggot-names, how are you doing this morning?” Frankie replied. He dropped his backpack by the stairs and forced his way into the shrubs. “Ya know, you got me and my little siblings in trouble the other day.”

Frankie crouched down and found Michael sitting with his legs crossed in the dirt. He puffed on his cig and asked, “For what?”

“Gay ass faggots. The kids think it’s a goddamn pet name now.” 

Michael choked on his smoke, amusement in his eyes. “My mom thinks it’s a pet name too. And no one’s bothered to correct her.”

“Well, maybe you should.” Frankie said, invoking his mother’s lecture voice.

Not saying anything back, Michael tapped his Kool on his knee, ashes fell on his jeans.

“Nat King Cole died from smoking Kools.” Frankie said. He smoked at parties so he didn’t have room to talk but the silence Michael often returned to made him nervous.

“So did my uncle.”

Frankie’s lip twitched, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He died in prison before I was born.”

Silence again. Frankie drummed his fingers on the ground. Opening his mouth to speak again, Michael interrupted.

“Oh. I almost forgot.” He moved his hips up and pulled from his pocket a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Frankie. “I found this in your booth at the Bella Morte on Saturday morning.”

Frankie unfolded the paper. It was lyrics to a new song he was working on. He had shoved the paper in his back pocket earlier that day. It must have fallen out during dinner.

Just as Frankie anxiously wondered if Michael had read any of it, he looked right at him and quoted, “’Lie in the grass, next to the mausoleum. I’m just a notch in your bedpost, but you’re just a line in a song.’”

His stomach lurked. The worst kind of torture he could imagine was someone reading his lyrics aloud to him. 

“Interesting…” Michael continued, pinning Frankie with an intense stare. “Is this a poem?”

Frankie flushed, “No, actually. It’s a song. I play guitar.” The last bit came out sounding pretentious. “I mean, not very well, I just… play it.”

Michael said nothing. He brought his cig to his lips again.

“Frankie, there you are, Jesus Christ!” Patrick shouted. He was holding back the branches of a bush and peering in at them. “Oh, Michael,” Patrick blushed. “Hello.”

“Aren’t you that kid that skipped seventh grade?” Michael squinted at Patrick in the sun.

“Yes. Patrick Dizco. Soon to be world-renowned.” He flashed his perfect teeth.

Michael blinked, unimpressed. “Renowned for what, exactly?”

“For being me, of course!”

Frankie grimaced at Patrick’s proud display of… Patrick. He could tell Michael was getting irritated by him. “Where did you want to go, Patrick?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in gym? Michael asked suddenly.

Frankie looked back at him but he was staring at his Kool. “How would you know what class I have?”

“Because I’m supposed to be in gym right now too.”

“Why aren’t you?” Patrick asked.

“What’s it matter? I’m going to fail anyway. They want me in class so they can see how far down I sink.” He scoffed. “Well, I’m not a joke or a line without a hook.”

Patrick was quiet for a moment before asking the very question Frankie was thinking, “How are you failing gym?”

“How? Because I won’t dress in their stupid gym shorts. Like I said, I’m not a joke.” Michael defensively brought his knees up, pressing himself against the brick wall.

“If you don’t like the shorts. Why don’t you buy long sweat pants to wear?” Frankie said. “They could even be black if you wanted.”

Michael grumbled. Frankie could tell he’d never even thought of that. “We’re gonna get going, Michael. Do you want to come with us?” He was feeling good about his small win against the volatile teen. He looked to Patrick for approval. Pat’s eyes were bright and swooning.

Michael crushed his cigarette into the dirt. “Maybe… Where are you going?”

“Ummmmm…” Frankie’s eyes caught Patrick’s and he shrugged.

“There’s a cemetery near here.” Michael said, a slow, mischievous smile gracing his pale face. “With a mausoleum.” 

Frankie chuckled and walked through the bushes to retrieve his bag. “To the mausoleum!”

The three teenagers spread out in the grass of the Phoenix Cemetery, sharing a small bottle of vodka Michael conveniently kept in his bag.

“Why do they call this place the Phoenix? Did they think the dead people are just gonna rise out of the ground like phoenixes? How disgusting.” Patrick slurred. He had never had anything more than fancy wine and champagne to drink in his life. The cheap, strong vodka was going right through him.

“My mom calls this place Death Valley. Because of the landscape.” Michael said. But he was looking at Frankie, not Patrick when he said it. 

Patrick downed another gulp of the clear liquid. “Hey Michael, hey, um, is your brother’s tombstone in this cemetery?”

Frankie snatched the almost empty bottle away from Patrick. 

“Yeah, it is,” Michael sneered. “In fact, he walks the graveyard in a drunken stupor along with the two teenagers he killed. If you’re really quiet, you can even hear them high-fiving.”

Patrick’s eyes glazed over and a greenish tint washed out his skin. “I’m gonna vomit.” He groaned and shakily stood up. 

“Don’t puke on a gravestone!” Frankie warned. He kept an eye on Pat as he stumbled behind the stone building.

“My brother died in a drunk-driving accident three years ago. His friends died too, the ones in the car with him. He crashed into a tree going fifty miles an hour in a school zone. His heart stopped beating at the hospital and he got what he deserved, the ending of his life.” Michael explained to Frankie. He took the Vodka from him and drank the sliver that was left, without flinching.

“My dad died from a brain aneurism,” Frankie offered up. “One minute he was waiting for a train, like always, the next he was dead. Didn’t even know he was sick. I was nine.”

Michael stood up slowly. He picked up his bag and wrapped it around him.”I have to go to work.”

“You’re going to work after drinking?” Frankie asked, his lips turned up in a concerned smile. “You’re just a collection of bad habits, aren’t you?”

He looked down at Frankie and then to the gate of Death Valley. “I guess so.” Michael walked away, only weaving a little.

A loud moan came from behind the mausoleum. Patrick tripped his way back to Frankie. “Where’d Michael go?”

“He had to go to work.”

“My poor lover,” Patrick mumbled then fell face-down in the grass.

Frankie checked his phone for the time. 3:03. He could let Patrick sleep for three hours before he had to be home. He got up and walked between the graves for a while until he found the name he was looking for. 

“Daniel Cyril Romanci” the grave read, “1992-2011” And that was all.


	5. Life is But a Dream for the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A midnight trip to a poetry reading gives Frankie bad dreams.

Michael slid soundlessly up to Frankie and Patrick as they stood in the school hallway, staring at Patrick’s locker. The word “FAG” was painted in Pepto pink across his skinny locker.

“What a horrid shade of pink,” Patrick shook his head. “It’s almost an insult to my character.” 

“Pitchfork red would have made a better statement,” Michael agreed. He leaned in close to the writing and scratched at it with his finger nail. “This paint is acrylic. It’s from the art department.”

Frankie frowned. “Shouldn’t the principal do something about this? It’s a hate crime.”

Patrick giggled and answered, “It’s not a hate crime because I’m not homosexual… I’m just sexual.”

Michael furred his brows like he was deep in thought and skulked away as silently as he came. Frankie watched him turn the corner and go up the stairs.

Later that day Frankie left his World History class and trotted to lunch, his ipod headphones in his ears. He strode past Beverly Golding as she stood gasping and shrieking in front of what was apparently her locker. The word “CUNT” was painted in beautiful calligraphy across it. The color of the paint was none other than pitchfork red.

“You should’ve seen my locker, Bevy,” Frankie heard Sarah remark as he pressed pause on his ipod. “It said “SLEAZE”. Can you imagine the nerve?”

Frankie chuckled to himself and pressed play.

In the lunchroom he checked the darkest corner expecting Michael to be seated there. He was, of course.

“I see we’re waging war on the sewage of the youth?” Frankie sat down and pulled out a zip-lock baggy with a sad-looking peanut butter sandwich in it.

Michael glanced up innocently from his comic. “The holes they put us in are never deep enough.”

“Then why bother at all?”

Before Michael could answer, Patrick bounded out of nowhere. “Did you write “cunt” and “sleaze” on Bev’s and Sarah’s lockers?”

“Nope,” Michael said sarcastically. “Must’ve been a freak paint accident.”

Patrick hopped up and down, looking very pleased. He sat down next to Frankie.

Michael looked at Frankie and then at Patrick. He sighed loudly and with two fingers, melodramatically flipped his comic book shut.

“Hey!” Frankie peered at the cover. “Is that ’Umbrella Academy’?”

Michael narrowed his eyes, “Yeah, why?”

“I love that series. I read it after hearing how Way’s work was influenced by the ‘Doom Patrol’. Not exactly a good comparison but I liked it regardless. ‘Doom Patrol’ was also my dad’s favorite comic series. That and ‘Wonder Woman’.”

“Who was your favorite character?” Michael demanded to know as though Frankie were lying to him.

“I guess Diego. I mean Klaus was cool too but Diego just reminded me of Batman too much to not like him.”

Michael considered this. He pressed his lips together for a moment then a smile, a true-blue, nothing but happiness smile, split his sour face in two. His stoic eyes cracked and lit up from the inside. “Klaus was my favorite. I want tattoos like his when I have the money.”

“Wonder Woman’s cool,” Patrick blurted out. He had been out of the conversation for too long. “I mean, her outfit is absolutely legendary.”

Frankie cracked up, holding his side with one hand. Michael bit his lower lip but kept grinning.

“Drama club’s meeting after school again. Every Tuesday and Thursday. Do you guys like,” Patrick held his silver-ringed hand to his mouth and chewed on a nail, “wanna come?”

Frankie answered “Yeah, Patrick, I’ll come.”

Michael used both his hand to tuck his hair behind his ears, “Okay. I’ll be there.”

The rest of the day rolled on for Frankie like a broken toy wagon. He was happy Michael had taken revenge for Patrick and happy he had smiled at lunch without a sinister meaning behind it. Frankie had been worried about Patrick’s hopeless infatuation with Michael but perhaps it wasn’t as hopeless as he originally thought. It could work out for those two after all.

Drama club was noisy just like last time. Since the one-time play Patrick had written was over, everyone was practicing their own works of genius. Patrick, though completely unnecessary to the song, was prancing about on his table again, singing a song Frankie had written about his parents.

“This is the story of how they met! Her picture was on the back of a pack of cigarettes. And when she touched him, he turned ruby red. A story that they’ll never forget, never forget!”

From behind the curtains of the stage, Michael appeared. He looked around and, after catching Frankie’s eye, started to walk towards him.

Patrick spun on the table to the beat of the song. But when he saw Michael near him, his legs seemed to forget how to pirouette. 

Frankie jumped up when Patrick started to fall. “Patrick!” he screamed. 

Somehow Michael turned at that moment and held out his arms to catch the teen. Patrick fell into Michael’s arms safely but because they were both about the same size, Michael   
was knocked down to his knees. He dumped the too-heavy Patrick on the floor.

“My hero!” Patrick howled, clearly distressed. He threw his arms around Michael’s neck. Michael flinched then froze in place.

“Jeez! Are you guys okay? Patrick, you could have broken your neck!” Frankie jogged over to his friends.

Michael’s frozen body thawed hastily and he squirmed out of Patrick’s grasp. Without a word, he got up and slumped against the wall where Frankie’s bag was laying.

Patrick gazed up at Frankie and smiled as though he’d won an award. He returned to his personal table-stage and started the song over.

“This is the story of how they met!”

Frankie walked back to his corner where Michael now sat, his face shoved in the pages of ‘Umbrella Academy’.

“So, that was pretty cool, you catching Patrick. Are you always this heroic to damsels in distress?” Frankie teased him.

Michael glared at him with the same furious, defensive eyes he had when Frankie first tripped over him in the bushes.

Frankie’s heart dropped, disappointed. “I was just kidding.”

Michael said nothing. Until, “You’re glad I saved the kid’s neck? Maybe I should’ve let him fall and learn a lesson.”

Frankie pointed out, “But you didn’t let him fall.”

“Uh huh,” Michael turned a page. “Why do you like him so much anyway? He seems like a…” He flipped another page. “…hazard.”

He tried to laugh, light-heartedly. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s his charm. He grows on people.” Frankie searched for words Michael would appreciate, “He’s got his tongue on the   
socket of electric dreams.”

“Mhm.” 

Frankie could tell Michael was only pretending to be uninterested. 

“You should come to my poetry reading tonight,” Michael said “If you care about people with electric dreams, you should see people who lead the sharpest lives, in the dark where people take off their skin in a cannibal glow.”

“Sounds… interesting.” Frankie breathed. “What time?”

“Midnight.”

“That late? Uh, okay. What about Patrick?”

Michael’s eyebrow twitched, “Bring him if you want.”

Frankie snuck out easily but couldn’t ignore the feeling of guilt his stomach held after seeing his mother knocked out on the couch. She was snoring loudly and hadn’t changed from her work clothes. The TV was on mute.

Nonetheless, Frankie was a little afraid of what Michael might do if he broke a promise to him. So he hopped into Patrick’s parents’ Mercedes and shut the door quietly.

“Strike up the band! We’re in for a show tonight,” Patrick gleefully said. His energy was turned on high since Frankie told him about the poetry thing. “Poets! So young and desperate for attention!”

“Aren’t your parents going to be mad when they find out your driver took you to a club in the middle of the night on a school night?”

Patrick shook his freshly flat-ironed hair back and forth, “Nope! My parents assigned this driver to me so they wouldn’t have to take me anywhere and talk to me.”

The Mercedes made quite a scene in the dingy part of town Michael had told them to go. The dilapidated building looks unstable to say the least. People were scattered outside it, most of them looked homeless. When Frankie exited the car, Patrick clung to him.

A sign flickered above the door – Battery Club and Bar.

“Battery as in ‘batteries’ or Battery as in ‘beating someone to death’?” Patrick squeaked. He suddenly seemed less excited for the poetry reading.

Frankie squeezed his skinny arm, “I dunno, Pat. Maybe both.”

Inside the club, the very large woman at the bar told them to take the broken stairs to the basement. Past the room filled with nothing but crates of beer was the room for the   
poetry readings.

The poetry reading room had two people in it. One was a crusty-looking man in his thirties. His broken-fingernail hands were wrapped around a microphone that wasn’t plugged into anything. The second was Michael sitting in one of the lopsided chairs. The man had his undivided attention.

“Michael!” Patrick waved to him as thought the room was crowded and Michael needed to know they had arrived. 

“Shhh!” Michael whipped around angrily and held a finger to his lips.

“Dark thoughts collide with a bright future, darkening that future and ruining it’s crisp edges. I crumble around my own heart as it lies to me. Stumbling, searching. For any bit of sanity long since gone.” The man looked down dramatically and lifted one hand. He snapped twice.

Michael clapped joyously while Patrick led Frankie to a seat next to him. 

‘What?’ Frankie couldn’t help but ask in his mind. 

“That’s Roger Armel. He’s the best poet in this whole town. So clap.” Michael hissed.

Patrick clapped politely. Frankie gave one solitary clap. He stared down Michael.

“Your turn, my young soul.” The man said to Michael. He was smiling with all five of his rotting teeth. He watched Michael take the stage like a wolf would watch baby rabbits straying from their mother.

Frankie tightened his hands into fists, feeling his nails cut into his palm.

Pushing the broken microphone down to his face, Michael began his poem, “I took a train out of New Orleans and they shot me full of Ephedrine. This is how we like to do it in the   
murder scene. Can we settle up the score? If you were here, I’d never have a fear so go on, live your life. But I miss you more than I did yesterday.”

Patrick gave him a standing ovation, shouting about undiscovered genius and a true heart of the arts. Frankie clapped, genuinely impressed with how much better Michael’s   
poetry was than Crusty’s. 

Crusty licked his ugly teeth and Michael looked away, embarrassed but smiling.

That night after the meeting at Battery Club and Bar, Frankie couldn’t sleep. He went over and over in his mind the look on that man’s face as he scanned Michael’s small body. 

And the look on Michael’s face when he watched the guy reading, how enthralled he was. 

He growled in frustration, punching the pillow. It killed him to wonder how long Michael has known the guy. And when he finally got to sleep, all Frankie could dream about was words on his locker screaming, “NO, NO, NO.”


	6. Alive in Death Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner at the Dizco mansion.

Frankie could feel the tension in the room like a rope around his body, the complete silence only broken by an occasional shuffle or turning of pages. He was always decent at math but this was extreme. He doubted some of the symbols on the test were even numbers. His vision blurred.

“Pst! Pst!” 

Frankie could feel a piece of paper stabbing his exposed neck. He ignored it. 

“Frank….ieee!” a soft whine came from behind him.

Dammit, Patrick. This test was the first of the school year. This mother would string him up by his toes if he got busted for cheating. 

Turning his head slightly, he snaked his arm up near his neck, pretending to scratch. The paper slid between his fingers. He wrapped his fist around it and brought his hand to his lap, opening the handwritten note.

“Do you want to come to my place tonight for dinner? I can get you home by six. My parents want to discuss my future. I need moral support! <3 Patrick. PS- Please give to Michael after confirming.”

Frankie frowned. He pulled out a compact mirror from his backpack. Turning the mirror just so, he could see Patrick’s expectant face in the circular reflection. Once he knew Pat was looking, Frankie gestured to Michael at the other side of the room and shrugged as if to ask ‘How’.

Patrick just gave a smile that said, ‘I have faith in you’ and returned to his test which, from what Frankie could tell, was almost finished.

Frankie looked at Michael again. His face was hidden was a mop of unruly hair. Ugh.

Grabbing his pencil, Frankie got up. The teacher, whose name was Mrs. Darpin, watched him as he made his way to the back of the classroom. Frankie stuck his pencil in the old-fashioned pencil sharpener fastened to the wall. He gave the teacher an innocent look and began sharpening.

Mrs. Darpin narrowed her eyes for a moment then turned back to her romance novel.

Moving quickly, Frankie went to Michael’s desk and dropped the note. As soon as he was close to his desk though, Frankie realized that under his black hair, Michael’s eyes were closed. His breathing was slow and even. His test was empty except for a name scribbled at the top.

Frankie moaned mentally. He gave the leg of Michael’s desk a kick, quick enough to be quiet but hard enough to jar him awake.

Michael moved his hair out of his face and bared his teeth at Frankie. 

‘The deed is done, Master,’ Frankie mouthed to Patrick and sat back down. Patrick pretended to clap.

When the bell rang, Patrick dropped his math test on the teacher’s desk and turned to Frankie. “What did Michael say?” 

“Nothing. He just jeered at me like always.”

Michael shoved himself up from the desk and took his test to the teacher. Darpin read over his test right away and slammed it down. “We’re having a talk, right now.”

Michael made a loud guttural noise of protest.

“Mr. Dizco, Mr. Owens-Bard, Michael will be available for chatting once I’m through with him. Get to class.” Darpin pointed her sharp chin at the door.

Frankie left, dragging Patrick behind him. Pat looked back at Michael fearfully, as though the math teacher was planning on feasting on his flesh.

The day went quickly. Patrick feverishly texted Frankie about the upcoming supper with his parents. But Frankie didn’t see Pat or Michael in person until lunch. 

“DoyouwanttohavedinnerwithFrankieandmeandmyparentstonight?” Patrick rushed out the question as soon as Michael plopped down in one of the plastic lunchroom chair.

“I read the note,” Michael replied causally.

“Wellllll? You don’t have to go if you have work, of course. I just figured-“

Michael picked up his plastic fork and poked at the greasy pizza on his tray. He put down his fork and took a baby carrot from Patrick’s lunch. “I don’t have a job anymore. I got fired.” He crunched down on the carrot.

“What happened?” Frankie asked. But really, he figured it was only a matter of time.

“Some pig said his meatballs were overcooked. I said if he wanted raw meatballs, he should look in his pants. He complained to the boss and well,” Michael shrugged. He took   
another carrot and then a potato chip from Frankie.

“That sucks, man,” Frankie offered up his sincerest voice. He patted Michael’s hand.

Michael pulled away and placed both his hands on his lap. “I was going to quit anyway. My mom found out about my job from the owner. He goes to the same bars as she does.”

“Your mom didn’t know?” Patrick looked confused. “Was she mad about it?”

“Nah,” Michael smiled. “She wanted my paychecks as rent. She always wants something.”

Frankie reached over and pulled Michael’s tray closer to him so he could eat his pizza. “So what did Darpin say about your test?”

Michael sighed, “Algebra doesn’t mean much to me. I’m already who I’ve got to be so why should I change myself to satisfy pigs?” 

Patrick was quiet. Frankie swallowed a bite of the pizza. “You didn’t do the test at all?”

“You just don’t understand, Frankie.”

“So, about tonight…” Patrick trailed off. He looked longingly into Michael’s eyes, desperate for a real answer.

“Fine, I’ll go.” Michael moved a box of Kools from his bag to his back pocket. He got up and walked to the exit of the lunchroom. 

“Perfect!” Patrick squealed. “Naturally, I won’t get my parents’ blessing but the looks on their faces when I introduce Michael will be priceless!”

Patrick’s mansion was a mansion in every sense of the word. There was a huge black gate that opened electronically when the blue Benz approached it. The huge house   
loomed over the teens as they exited the car. It was only slightly smaller than the high school. 

The drive opened both front doors at once and stood aside for Frankie and his friends to enter.

“This mansion doesn’t feel like a house, but a tomb.” Michael breathed looking up at the fifteen foot ceiling. A crystal chandelier hung from it’s center.

“Tell me about it,” Patrick snorted. “My parents practically eat diamonds.”

“Patrick!” A blonde woman dressed entirely in white stood at the top of a large staircase. “You didn’t tell me we would be having guests this evening.”

Patrick’s mother strode down the stairs as though she spent all day practicing the perfect entrance to parties. She smiled a sickly sweet grin of teeth made of pearls and held out her hand.

“Vivian Claire Dizco, it’s a pleasure to finally meet some of my son’s friends.”

Frankie couldn’t tell if Vivian expected him to shake her hand or kiss her sapphire ring. He chose to shake. Her light blue eyes were a match to Patrick’s but while Pat’s had the spark of ambition and life in them, Frankie could only see cold judgment in his mother’s.

“I’m Frankie, nice to meet you.” The woman gave another stiff smile.

She held out her hand to Michael and he shook it without a word or even a polite expression. 

“What’s your other friend’s name, dear?” Vivian stared down Michael coolly.

“This is Michael Romanci, mother.” Patrick quipped. Michael and Vivian’s eyes stayed locked in judgment of each other until Vivian finally gave in and looked away. 

“This way to the dining room,” She snipped and led the group down the hall.

Frankie glanced to Patrick expecting to see his face twisted in regret but instead he appeared to be thrilled. The heavy tension in the room was lighting his spirits.

Vivian’s husband was already seated at the head of the table. He stood up to greet his guests. 

“Albert Dizco, welcome to my humble abode.” His voice was deep and instead of looking into Frankie’s eyes like Vivian had to search for weaknesses; Albert didn’t look at him at all. His eyes just hesitated above the teen’s head momentarily then moved on. Patrick’s father had dusty brown hair, slicked back and thinning. He wore a navy blue suit and a tie. 

“Hello, Mr. Dizco. My name is Frankie-“

“Yes, yes! Very good. Come and be seated, kids.” He quickly sat down again and drank from his wine glass.

Michael sat on one side of the table while Frankie and Patrick took the other. Vivian had a butler pull out her chair.

“Hope you boys don’t mind Caesar salad as the first course,” Albert Dizco said, whipping his napkin to unfold it and tucking it into his collar. “I had the cook add fine African nuts for flavor.”

“Father, I’m allergic to nuts.” Patrick scowled.

“What?” Albert laughed. “You’re not allergic to nuts, son.”

“Yes, I am. Remember when I was almost killed during brunch on that Alaskan cruise? Mother, you remember, right? You had me locked in my room the rest of the night so I didn’t embarrass you with my swollen lips.”

Vivian said nothing. She was still glaring at Michael, a look on her face like she was trying to suck his dirty soul out and wash it in bleach. Michael was grinning back. ‘You’re running after something that you’ll never kill,’ Frankie remembered Michael saying. 

He attempted to bring about peace. “Mr. Dizco, this is such a nice house. What do you do for a living?”

Mr. Dizco laughed again, holding his chest. “Son, son, this is no house. This is a mansion. Nonetheless, I invest in many great companies around the world, mostly sugarcane.”

Frankie could hear Patrick whispering under his breath while he shot daggers at his father, “Fantastic posing greed.”

Frankie was at a loss. He tried the wife, “Mrs. Dizco, that’s a sweet-looking necklace. Where’d you get it?”

The compliment seemed to work. Vivian placed a finger on her diamond necklace and swirled it in a circle, smiling. “Call me Vivian, dear. Mrs. Dizco makes me sound so old. This necklace is made from pure diamonds. I received it from my lawyer, as a gift.” She looked to Albert across the table and grinned.

“Diamonds seem like broken glass to me,” Patrick said. 

Vivian switched her gaze to Patrick and frowned. “Darling, please convince your friend, Michael, to cut his hair for the next dinner he is invited to. I will never understand why   
the lower class insist on looking like the homeless.”

Michael sat up immediately and spat, “I’ll bet you’ve got nasty blisters from the money you spend!”

Her mouth dropped in shock. Frankie assumed she wasn’t anticipating a response. The help chose this time to bring in China plates filled with lettuce and nuts. Frankie began stuffing his face, knowing very well a storm was brewing with the crowd. 

Vivian lashed out, not wanting to confront Michael’s comment, “Didn’t your parents teach you table manners?!”

Frankie started laughing, not knowing how else to respond. Half-chewed lettuce fell from his mouth. 

Patrick cried out in defense of Frankie, “You don’t know anything, mother! Frankie’s dad is dead!”

Frankie’s laughter turned to choking. He grabbed his glass of water but wasn’t expecting the pure crystal to be so heavy. The glass jumped from his grasp and into his lap where the water spilled and his groin received a nasty hit. He gripped the chair and swerved his body in pain. The crystal glass rolled off his crotch and smashed on the marble floor. 

“I expect you to pay for that!” Albert roared.

“Oh, well, three cheers for tyranny!” Michael yelled. He got up from chair. “Unapologetic apathy! There’s no way I’m coming back again! Come on, Patrick, this place reeks of stench and fume!”

“Get out! Get out of my home!” Vivian exploded. She ran over to Frankie and wrenched him out of his chair of his sleeve. “Patrick, to your room!”

“No way!” Patrick linked his arms with Michael and Frankie and ran out of the room.

They were sprinting down a carpeted hallway, Frankie half-limping, still recovering from the crotch-shot, when he finally noticed it. Patrick was laughing, not just laughing but cracking up, tears collecting in his baby blues. Frankie looked at Michael who appeared just as confused as he was. Feeling the knot in his stomach loosen and disappear, Frankie began laughing as well. Michael smiled and shook his head.

The trio arrived in front of a plain white door. “Stay here for a second,” Patrick instructed and darted around a corner.

Popping up as quickly as he left, but this time holding a burlap reusable shopping bag, Pat opened the door and shoved Michael and Frankie inside. Lights flickered on and Frankie tried to adjust his eyes to the dim garage.

There had to be about twenty cars in the garage, and all looked sparkling new and worth more than Frankie’s life and home combined. 

“Take your pick!” Patrick spread out his arms to the sea of vehicles.

Michael pointed, “The Bentley!” His eyes gleamed with mischief. 

“Wait, who’s driving?” Frankie asked as Patrick grabbed a set of keys from hangers on the wall.

“You are!” Patrick tossed the keys to Frankie. He caught them in a daze.

Frankie drove as slowly as the laws would allow. Patrick sat shotgun, mauling over the day’s events. Michael was in the back, grinning ear to ear, and touching every stitch in the leather interior.

“I still have to be home by six… My mom is expecting me to watch the kids while she works.” Frankie reminded the group.

“It’s cool, Frankincense,” Michael lay down in the back of the car. Frankie could see him in the rear-view mirror as he stretched his legs out and closed his eyes. “It’s only five past four.”

It took twenty minutes to arrive in Death Valley. Frankie parked the car, set the alarm and stared at it, unable to comprehend that he had halfheartedly stolen a 300,000 dollar vehicle and drove it to a cemetery in broad daylight from a kid he’d only met a couple of weeks ago.

Patrick and Michael were elated, running through the cemetery gates like it was their own private club. Frankie followed, the shock wearing off slowly. He found them standing by the mausoleum. He smiled, ‘Of course’.

“What’s in the bag, Patrick? Food?” Michael asked. He hadn’t eaten any of the salad back at Pat’s place, possibly out of protest.

“A little,” Patrick beamed. He sat down the bag and began pulling out champagne glasses. “But mostly this!” He retrieved a bottle of champagne and set it on the ground. There was also a block of fancy cheese and a small paring knife.

Michael looked at the cheese like it was sent from heaven, “Asiago grasso di monte,” He whispered.

Frankie snickered at the scene, “Now all we need is a table cloth. And we’ll have ourselves a regular picnic.” 

Patrick quickly removed his jacket which closely resembled a marching band uniform and set it out on the grass. “I can always buy a new one.”

Frankie unwrapped the bottle and popped the top off. When it fizzed and smoked Patrick applauded, even Michael clapped a little.

“To Death Valley!” Frankie said pouring everyone a glass. “We’re alive here in Death Valley. We love a lot so we only lose a little. This town is wasted and alone!”

The friends toasted and sat down in the grass. Patrick cut up the asiago, “Sorry about the dinner, guys. I knew it’d turn out that way. I just- I didn’t want to be alone in the fight.”

Frankie took a piece of the cheese. “It’s alright, Pat. Some people just have their heads up their asses. You are what you love, remember?”

“I thought it was a blast,” Michael spoke up. “Your mom’s one tough bitch.”

“Yeah,” Patrick rolled his eyes. “She owns my dad. Gets him to do whatever she wants, buy her whatever she wants. My dad’s too vapid to see what’s right in front of his fucking face.” He swirled his glass around, watching the liquid. 

“What about your dad, Michael?” Frankie asked. He knew he was treading on thin ice but he had to know. “Do you like him?”

Michael breathed and set down his glass. He lay back in the grass, looking up at the cloudless sky. “He left when I was three. I don’t remember him. My mom says I inherited his bad attitude.”

“Oh,” he mumbled.

“Yup!” Michael sat up. “My mom dates and gets married in the same month. She’s divorced three step-daddies since my dad. Right now she’s dating some ugly drunk Mexican.”

Frankie spit out his champagne. “Really? A Mexican? Does he sing in the shower?”

“How the fuck would I know, Frankie? He doesn’t ask me to wash his back.”

Grinning, Frankie took another piece of cheese.

“But anyway, it doesn’t matter. My mom only chooses guys that hate me. Except her last boyfriend,” Michael smiled. “Roger Armel? The guy from the poetry reading? He was the last guy my mom dated. She didn’t marry him though. ”

“Oh, really?” Frankie’s heart sunk. The crusty creep. The guy staring.

“The poet?” Patrick remembered as well, “He seemed really cool.”

“He is cool,” Michael said. “I met him at an art show for the school. He saw my paintings and liked them so much, he wanted to meet my mom. They only dated for a couple of weeks but he never shouted at me once, even when I was a dick to him.”

“Why was he at an art show for high school students?” Frankie asked. His throat was tightening. He knew when someone was shady. He knew when someone wanted something.

“I dunno. He doesn’t have a kid or anything. But he’s really into the arts.”

Patrick studied Frankie’s face. “What’s up, Frankie? You look upset.”

“It’s…nothing. What do you guys do together?” He knew he was quickly getting into bad territory but he couldn’t stop himself.

Michael drank a gulp of champagne, “We go to art shows. And poetry events. Why do you care?”

“I get a bad vibe from him…”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, “What kind of bad vibes could you get from someone you just met? You don’t even know him.”

Patrick held up the bottle of champagne, “You guys want any more of this? It’s the best champagne blood money can buy.”

Michael looked at Patrick and then back at Frankie. He tipped his glass, pouring the drink onto the grass. “You got something to say?”

“Michael… I don’t like the way he looks at you. I just want you to be careful.”

“What the fuck?” He threw his arms up. “What do you even mean? He cares about me like no one else does. He’s always there for me. You’re just a paranoid fuck.”

Frankie sighed, “Dude, why would he want to hang out with a fifteen year old boy?”

Gritting his teeth, and pressing his hands his fists, Michael yelled, “He’s like my dad. You don’t know anything!”

“The way he looks at you isn’t like a father and son!” Frankie shouted.

Michael scrambled to his feet “How would you know!?”

His words sliced through the air like bullets hitting Frankie’s unprotected skin. There was silence.

Frankie got up. He leaned in close to Michael, “I’ve cried tears you’ve never seen. So fuck you. You can go cry me an ocean.”

Michael stepped back, a look on his face that could have been hurt. He turned around and ran out of Death Valley.

Patrick and Frankie said nothing as they packed the picnic back up.

“It’s almost 5:30.” Patrick said. “Can you drop me off before you go home?” 

“Ummmm, how am I supposed to get home? Your driver?”

Patrick picked up the burlap bag. “Nah. My mom is mad so she probably gave him the day off. You can take the Bentley from a while. My dad won’t notice.”

“…. Okay.”

That night, Frankie waited up for his mom in the darkness of the living room. A documentary on penguins was playing but Frankie wasn’t paying much attention.

“I’m not trying to jump to conclusions,” His mother appeared in the darkness. “But are you selling drugs? Are you prostituting? Please tell me you use condoms if it’s the latter.”

Frankie grinned. “Nah, I haven’t made enough for a Bentley in the short time I’ve been hooking.”

My mom smiled and sat down next to him. “So, what’s up, buttercup?”

“You know my friend Patrick?”

“The gay theater kid?”

Frankie laughed, “Yeah, yeah. Him. Well, he let me borrow his Bentley until tomorrow.”

“That’s, uh….generous.”

“Damn straight, mama.”

His mother chuckled and shook her head, “Well, you’ll have to take me for a ride in the morning. Not every day my kid has a Bentley in his possession.”

“Sure, mom. Sure.” Frankie turned the penguin documentary up. His mom watched it with him until the credits rolled.


	7. I'm Just a White Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one cares about Michael Romanci.

The next couple days were nearly void of Michael. He wasn’t in school on Thursday. On Friday, he wasn’t in math, but he turned up for gym, adorned in long black sweatpants and a thin black long-sleeved shirt. Frankie grinning knowingly when he saw him but Michael avoided his eyes. Frankie was too angry and frustrated to go after him.

It ended up not mattering that Michael dressed out though. He refused to play kickball. Standing at home plate, he sent death glares to Frankie in the outfield for forty-five minutes straight. If Frankie was in a better mood, he would have found his dedication impressive.

Saturday night, Frankie helped Elisa and Oliver with their homework. He couldn’t believe they were already reading short sentences. He watched them reading, eyes squinted, brains working hard and he tried not to think about men like Roger Armel. He tried to blame the pain in his gut on the microwave dinner he’d made.

Even when he lay down to sleep that night, he tried not to miss Michael. There was no reason to miss him, he tried to convince himself. Michael was rude and crazy. The whole school knew that. ‘The whole school,’ Frankie repeated that phrase in his mind. ‘And maybe even the whole town. No one cares about Michael Romanci.’ He picked at a hole in his blanket.

Frankie had to get up and take sleeping pills.

Gurgling drool, Frankie found himself opening his eyes in the middle of the night. Something had woken him, something. It took him five minute to wrap his mind around the sound. 

It was his phone, set to vibrate and going off in his backpack near the bookshelf. He considered ignoring it. Whoever was calling probably had the wrong number.

But when the phone stopped ringing. And then, a few seconds later, started up again. Frankie jumped out of bed. He quickly found his phone and looked at the screen.

‘Patrick Diva Disco’ The caller ID said. He answered. “Patrick? What’s wrong?”

“Frankie? I, um, I need you to come get me. You still have the Bentley?”

“Yeah, yeah. I do.” ‘Where else would the Bentley be?’ he wondered. “Where are you? What’s wrong?”

There was silence on the other line and then what sounded like a stifled sob. “I just need you to get me. I’m at my house.”

Frankie was halfway in his jeans. With the phone in the crook of his neck, he zipped his leather boots on without socks. “I’m coming. I’m on my way.”

He roared down the vacant street, no longer caring how expensive the car was. He made it to Patrick’s mansion on the other side of town in less than ten minutes. Patrick was   
sitting on the ground outside the black gate. He got into the passenger side.

Not a word was spoken in the ride back to Frankie’s. He considered taking Pat to Death Valley but the gates were closed and Frankie didn’t think Patrick was up for scaling fences.

So the cork tree was their only option. Frankie parked the car in his driveway and waited for Pat to sit next to him under the tree.

He did. Frankie could barely see him in the dark. The streetlight closest to his home was out.

“Pat?” He touched his shoulder, “What happened? Was it your parents?”

Frankie saw the shadow of Patrick’s head shake. “No. I just… Don’t be mad, okay?”

“Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“I… I went to see Michael… at Battery club.”

Frankie could feel the blood rush from his face. When he didn’t answer right anyway, Patrick pressed fists into his eyes and started crying.

“What happened?” Frankie couldn’t keep the panic out of his voice.

“I just wanted to talk to Michael. I wanted him to talk to me and to stop being angry at you. Do a little damage control.” Patrick took a shaky breath, “I had my driver take me to   
Battery around midnight. I figured he would be there but he wasn’t. Just that guy.” There was a pause and Patrick repeated angrily, “That guy.”

Frankie pressed his palms into his legs.

“I was going to leave but… the guy, Roger; he said Michael was on his way. That he was going to do a reading tonight but he had to wait until his mom left. Roger asked if I wanted to wait for him…” Patrick sniffled and his voice cracked. “He gave me a water. I’m so fucking stupid. He gave me a cup of water that was sitting on one of the tables and I drank some. As soon as I did, I knew it was a bad idea. I knew. I should’ve just left right then. I should’ve…”

Patrick took some deep breaths and continued, “I started to feel weird. Like, dizzy and sick. The guy started saying stuff. All this crap about how beautiful Michael’s friends are. But he said not to tell Michael he said so. He said Michael would be upset if he found out Roger was giving some of his love to one of his friends.” Frustrated, Patrick looked up to the sky.

Frankie couldn’t say anything. He just waited.

“I was starting to feel worse. And Roger was touching my leg. So I got up really quickly and said I had to pee. I went to the bathroom and stuck my fingers down my throat to puke up the water. I was trying to figure out how to get out of the basement when the door to the bathroom wrenched open. Roger grabbed me and forced me back into the poetry room. I guess he heard me puking.”

“He pushed me against a corner and got really close to me. He said, ‘I’ll weigh you down. I’ll watch you choke.’ I was so freaked out. I was so scared. I couldn’t move. It was like I was marooned in this body and everything was happening to someone else. He grabbed my neck and tried to kiss me but I bit his lip as hard as I could. He was furious and screamed at me, ‘Love is not a choice!’ Everything was turning fuzzy. That’s when Michael walked down the stairs. He freaked. Started shouting, ‘What are you doing?’ The guy looked away and loosened his grip so I shoved him and ran up the stairs.”

Patrick was shaking his head again and Frankie could hear him whimpering, “I should’ve grabbed Michael too but, but I wasn’t thinking! I just ran out of there and into the car. If he hurt Michael after I left…” His voice trembled. Frankie could feel his body shaking next to him. “I passed out in the car. I woke up an hour later, lying on the floor of my garage. My driver was in the backseat, cleaning vomit off the interior. He said he didn’t approve of me drinking and said he wouldn’t take me back to Battery ever again, he didn’t care if he got fired.”

“Oh, Patrick,” Frankie whispered. His head felt heavy from the sleeping pills but the rest of his body was on fire. There was a terrible pain in his heart for Patrick and an even stronger anger coursing through the veins of his fingers for Roger Armel. Never in his life had Frankie hated being right so much.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Patrick asked in a soft voice. He was just starting to calm down a little. “I couldn’t bare going in that house and feeling the coldness.”

“Of course,” Frankie squeezed Pat’s arm which prompted Patrick to reach out and embrace Frankie tightly, like he was lost in the sea and Frankie was his only wreckage to cling to.

“It’s like…” Patrick whispered into Frankie’s shirt. “I don’t want to freak you out or anything but… when he attacked me, at first, I just froze because… because I was kinda remembering this friend of my dad’s.”

Frankie could feel Patrick continue to quiver in his arms. He shut his eyes and let his friend speak.

“This guy… My parents took me to his house for a party… when I was eight and he got me alone… just like Roger got me alone…” his voice trailed off as though he was reliving the moment.

“Pat?” Frankie squeezed the teen in his arms.

“But I didn’t just let it happen. Not again.” Pat finally said. His voice grew hard. “I bit the fucker. I should’ve let him pull down his pants first and bit off his dick.”

“We should go inside,” Frankie didn’t know what else to say.

The two went into Frankie’s house. Frankie sent up an area of the living room with chips and soda while Patrick used the restroom to wipe his tears. Turning on the TV low to some romantic comedy, Frankie waited.

When Pat came out of the bathroom, he went in and locked the door. Frankie clutched his chest and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. He tried to breathe. He tried to stop shaking, to stop the dread washing over him like heavy waves from the sea. Frankie puked violently into the toilet. When he finished, he flushed and cut his brain off from the rest of him.

“Pat?” He said after came out of the bathroom. “I have to go see Michael.”

Much to Frankie’s surprise, Patrick nodded. He didn’t beg to come along. He just sat down on the couch and opened the can of Coke left for him.

Frankie’s head swirled with emotions as he drove. He scanned his own thoughts and tried to find one fragment of anger for Michael but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t blame Michael. If Patrick hadn’t gone to find him, he would be the one alone with Roger in that basement and there would’ve been no one walking down the stairs to stop it.

 

4th and Fremont was as active as if it were two in the afternoon instead of two at night. A group of gangbangers huddled near a corner, their eyes turning to the Bentley as   
Frankie pulled in. A fat woman in a short skirt sat on the curb. Her eyes were vacant and stained.

Frankie opened the door to the apartment complex he had seen Michael walk into weeks earlier. He was surprised that was no buzzing system or controlled access to the building. The inside hallway reeked of asbestos and formaldehyde. 

As he trudged up the stairs slowly, Frankie searched his brain for a way to tell Michael’s apartment from the others. Stopping in his tracks, he had an epiphany and went back down the stairs.

By the entrance there were rows and rows of small mailboxes, each with a number and a last name printed on them. He looked down each section until he found ‘Romanci – 6A’

Frankie returned to the stairs. By the time he reached the fifth group of stairs, he was crawling.

The door of Michael’s apartment suddenly seemed intimidating. ‘What if he’s not there? What if his mom doesn’t let me in?’ Frankie wondered. He wished Michael had a cell phone.

Gathering a burst of confidence, Frankie knocked three times on the door. It swung open and revealed the woman Frankie had seen sitting and drinking on the stairs. She quickly lost her joyous grin and confusion sharpened her dark features.

“You’re not Alexander.” She said slowly. Her speech was nearly perfect. Frankie could only hear the faint Italian accent because he was expecting it.

“Uh, no, ma’am. My name is Frankie and I’m one of your son’s friends.”

“My son… my son,” Her blood-shot eyes filled with tears that never fell. “You’ve come to see him? Come in.”

Frankie hesitated, and then entered the small, run-down home. There were boxes everywhere, filled with various items of trash. The living room had an old fashioned TV and an ugly couch that had seen better days. 

“Here he is, my son, my angel.” The woman took an urn off a shelf and handed it to Frankie before he could say no.

“Oh, uh,” Frankie studied the urn. It was white with blue detail. And heavy with Michael’s brother’s ashes. Frankie felt weak in the knees.

“I’m here to see your other son, Ms. Romanci. Michael?” 

The woman was so close to Frankie, he could smell the cheap wine on her breath. With the mention of Michael’s name, she reeled back.

“Oh!” She took the urn away roughly. “He sells you drugs?”

“No, no! We have a school project and I just-“

Ms. Romanci waved to a door near the kitchen, “Go, go! I’m waiting for my boyfriend. I don’t have time for Michael and the trouble he brings here!”

Frankie got the hint and sprinted towards Michael’s room. When he got to the door, he didn’t knock, just ran in and closed the door to avoid the woman.

Curling up on his bed with a sketch pad and a charcoal pencil, Michael seemed surprised but not totally shocked to see Frankie standing in his room.

Frankie walked toward him, taking in the drawing covered walls and storage boxes filled with comics. All in all, Michael’s room was cluttered but spotless. Frankie could see between the black curtains on his windows, out to the fire escape.

“Michael,” Frankie began. He sat on the edge of Michael’s bed. Michael curled up tighter and stiffened. “Are you okay?”

“Why?” Michael asked in a flat tone. He added something to his sketchpad with the charcoal.

“Patrick told me what happened… Did Roger hurt you?”

“No,” Michael whispered, not making eye contact. “He hurt Patrick. And it was my fault.”

Frankie tried to touch Michael for comfort but he kept moving away, “It wasn’t you, Michael! It was Roger. Roger attacked Patrick. You couldn’t have known he would do that!”

“You told me he would!” Michael’s eyes filled with tears. But he swallowed them back. Whatever threatened to rip away from him was shoved down. “I’m the fucking idiot who   
didn’t listen. I’m the piece of shit who let this happen.” 

“Michael, please,”

“I…” Michael shook his head. “I didn’t mean for Patrick to get hurt. I didn’t…” 

“I know,” Frankie took the sketchpad from Michael so there was nothing between the two. “You trusted him. It’s not your fault.”

“I really did. I thought he was a good guy. I thought he-” Michael swallowed again, “cared.”

Frankie leaned back on the bed, “Michael,” He said softly, “Have you been drinking?”

Michael laughed bitterly, “The amount of pills I took counteracts the booze I drank.”

“You took pills? How many?” Sitting straight up, Frankie stared at Michael’s face. He tried to figure out how an OD’ing expression might look.

“Not enough,” Michael said with a smile. And then again, quietly, “Not enough.”

“Michael… Patrick doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame you. When the chips are down and your drinks are all gone, we’ll still be here.” Frankie got up from the bed. “We care about you. We’re your friends.”

Michael just bit his lip and looked down.

“Did Roger try anything after Patrick left?”

“No,” Michael mumbled. “Just said all this shit about loving me and that Patrick came on to him. I said he was one sick fuck and he accused me of leading him on. ‘Boys like you   
try too hard to look not quite as desperate.’ he said” He laughed, “Can you believe that?”

Frankie extended a hand to Michael, “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to my house,” Michael grabbed Frankie’s hand and got up from the bed. “Patrick is there. He wants to make sure you’re alright and I do too.”

Michael reluctantly agreed. They left the Romanci’s apartment without saying goodbye to Michael’s mother.

The teens stayed up all night watching product commercials. Patrick and Michael said nothing. Then when the early morning cartoons came on, the twins joined the boys in the living room. Frankie’s mother woke up around ten, shuffling into the living room for coffee in her robe and slippers.

“Where’s the party, guys?” She asked through a yawn.

“That reminds me,” Frankie said getting up from the couch. “I have an errand to run. I’ll be back in an hour.”

The Battery Bar and Club owner gave Frankie the address he needed. He drove the Bentley into Roger Armel’s driveway and parked.

As soon as Roger answered the door he was met with Frankie’s fist in his eye socket.

“What the fuck?” Roger screamed, falling back into the house. Frankie shut the door behind him and punched the man again, this time in the stomach.

Roger gasped for air. Frankie knocked his face a second time. He kicked him to the ground and started pounding his leather boots into his face.

“If you were on fire, Roger,” Frankie spat. He brought his fist down again and felt a bone crack in the man’s nose. “I wouldn’t piss on you to put you out.”

Frankie left the house after thirteen minutes of beating. He drove home in the Bentley, blood from his knuckles staining the steering wheel.


	8. We Are Not Afraid to Keep on Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's normal to have sex dreams about your friends, right? Frankie thinks so.

The next day after school, Frankie and Patrick met at Frankie’s house. Michael wanted to come over as well but he claimed he needed to pick up some things first.

He came knocking at the door around five. When Frankie opened it, Michael shoved his way into the Owens-Bard home carrying four shopping bags.

“We have food here, Michael,” Frankie said with a grin. He observed Michael taking items out from the bags: A wrapped bag of raw meat with bones still attached, six or seven potatoes, tomatoes, onions, garlic, spices and vegetables Frankie didn’t even know the names of.

“You have frozen food. Besides your mom will be home tonight and she shouldn’t have to cook a meal after working all day.”

Frankie had no idea how Michael had memorized his mother’s working schedule when he didn’t fully know it yet, “Um, I don’t think she was planning on making a meal. She hates cooking. She usually orders pizza.”

“Well, the pizza in this town is shit,” Michael said. He pulled out a huge, strange-looking frying pan. “I wasn’t sure if your family had the right kind.” He explained. 

“You’re cooking dinner!” Patrick exclaimed in a delighted voice as he walked into the kitchen. He was taking a break from teaching the twins yoga in the living room.

“Hi, Patrick,” Michael greeted him with a pained look in his eye. He was still feeling guilty about Pat’s assault.

“What is this? Beef? Sausage?” Frankie poked at the boney, raw meat.

Michael swatted his hand with a spatula, “Do you want to get botulism, Frankie? And it’s lamb. Mind your business.”

Shooed from the premises, Frankie sat down at the dining table. Patrick and the twins joined him. As he watched Michael cut up the onion and the garlic, Frankie realized why   
he was making dinner. Michael was trying to apologize to his friends. 

The sound of the chunks of raw meat slapping down on the hot frying pan interrupted Frankie’s thoughts.

He put his elbows on the table, “What are you making?”

“Mind your business.” Michael repeated. He set out a sprig of rosemary. “Oliver, come help me season the lamb.”

Squeaking in joy, Olive scrambled off his chair. Elisa ignored him. She was busying sitting as still as possible as Patrick applied his eyeliner to her bottom lids.

Michael used both hands to hover the pan of meat without Oliver’s reach. Oliver tossed a sprig of rosemary onto the half-cooked lamb.

“Thanks,” Michael smiled. 

Frankie sat back in his chair, happily. 

Mrs. Owens-Bard arrived home with her usual exhausted expression. Until, that is, she saw and smelled whatever was being sautéed in her kitchen.

“Oh dear, God. Is that lamb?” She dropped her purse on the floor and ran over to Michael. Standing by his shoulder, she took a long, drawn-out inhale of the meal. She   
wrapped herself around Michael and kissed him on the cheek. “Bless this child.” 

Michael flushed, unsure how to respond.

Frankie’s mom sat at the table, next to Elisa and pointed her finger at Michael, then at Frankie with a stern face, “You better keep this one.”

Michael allowed Frankie to help spoon servings of the Italian dish onto plates and hand them out to the family. When fully-cooked, the meal looked to Frankie like some kind of   
lamb and potato stir fry.

“Agnello alla pastora,” Michael finally said when he took his seat next to Frankie.

Frankie was terrified to take a bite. The food looked delicious and he had watched Michael make it so he knew it wasn’t poisoned. But after eating at the Bella Morte soon after   
meeting Michael, he was concerned.

He had never in his life considered eating lamb so Frankie was at loss for how to approach this confusing meat. Each rack of lamb had one bone sticking out of the flesh. ‘Is this   
the handle?’ he wondered.

Frankie glanced to his mother and Patrick who had indeed, lifted their racks by the bone and were chewing on the ends. Their eyes were closed in quiet ecstasy.

He looked next to him to see Michael, not eating, but staring directly at him with a very serious face.

‘It’s now or never,’ he thought. Frankie picked up a piece of lamb and bit a chunk from it. He chewed slowly, deliberately tasting each flavor that came up. Frankie felt his sweat roll backwards. His heart began beating in reverse. ‘Sweet Christ,’

The agnello alla pastora was very close to the greatest thing he had ever tasted. If it had not been for a Vietnamese neighbor that gave him fried ice cream when he was seven and depressed about fractions, there would be no contest.

Frankie gobbled up the chop and picked up a fork to eat a bite of potato. 

“Nnnuhhhh,” he moaned aloud after the spud touched his taste buds.

His mom, the twins and Patrick laughed at him. Frankie could see Michael smiling out of the corner of his eye, satisfied with the reaction.

Later that night, Patrick, Michael and Frankie sat around the TV. Michael sat on the floor with his arms resting on the seat of the couch, Patrick was splayed on the sofa like he   
owned it, forcing Frankie to sit very straight and still next to Michael’s arm without touching it.

The beauty queen toddlers on the show they watched prompted very rude comments from Patrick at every turn.

“Look at this chick. I’ll bet to the judges her name is ‘Cheap.’”

“Ha! You can’t keep up with fashionistas, mommy! Just keeping telling yourself, ‘I’m a diva’.”

“She’s dancing fancy pirouettes and swan diving right off the deep end.”

“They’re only children, Patrick.” Michael finally said but he was grinning and hiding laughter from every snide remark.

“She may wear a crown now but she’s no princess.” Frankie added, sick of the obnoxious young girls and their horrible mothers. He brought up the channel guide.

“Whoa!” he squinted towards the screen, his reading glasses abandoned somewhere. “Does that say ‘Infinity on High’ is playing in fifteen minutes?”

Michael nodded, “My brother used to get so mad when I watched that movie. He said the graphics sucked.”

“It was made in the eighties,” Frankie laughed. “What did he expect?”

“What’s it about, Frankie?” Pat with a skeptical look on his face.

“It’s a science fiction flick about aliens and spacemen and laser cannons-“

“And monsters with visible zippers and car chases on Mars. Basically, it’s the greatest movie ever made.” Michael finished.

Patrick rolled his eyes, “Sounds very boyish. You two have fun. My mom’s been texting me for two hours now.”

“Aw, Pat. Why’d you ask what it was about if you’re gonna leave?” Frankie feigned a pouty face. 

“Something tells me I won’t miss out,” Patrick said. He stuck his tongue out playfully at his friends and sashayed towards the door.

“Wait, are you going to take the Bentley tonight?” Frankie remembered. 

“Eh,” Patrick shrugged and left the house.

“Congratulations, you’re the owner of a new Bentley,” Michael said, nudging Frankie’s leg with his elbow. 

Frankie scoffed, “It’s gonna get stolen.”

“Mhm,” Michael took a handful of the popcorn Frankie’s mom had made for them. “As soon as you’re not looking, it’ll end up parked in front of my place.”

Frankie laughed and changed the channel to the one playing “Infinity on High”. He turned the sound down a bit because the film was known to change volumes dramatically and the twins were already sleeping.

“So,” Michael cleared his throat, “’Is this more than you bargained for yet? Oh, don’t mind me, I’m watching you two from the closet, wishing to be the friction in your jeans.’ Is this about your ex-girlfriend or something?”

Frankie shifted uncomfortably. Michael was doing that thing where he quoted Frankie’s own lyrics back to him. “Kind of,”

“Kind of,” Michael repeated gruffly. He seemed annoyed with the response. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” Frankie leaned back on the couch, grateful for the extra room Patrick had left. “I based the song on this girl I knew last summer. Her name was Amber. And she was, I   
guess, my first real crush. I talked to her a couple times and then at this party we hooked up. I tried to text her the next day, she didn’t respond. I tried calling, she hung up on me. 

We never spoke again.”

“That sucks,” Michael said. Frankie felt a disingenuous tone.

“Yeah, I mean, she was a bitch but I really liked her.” he found himself trying to justify his feelings.

“Did she like comics and sci-fi movies?”

“No.”

Michael turned and smiled at Frankie, “Then fuck her.”

“But I already did,” Frankie grinned and looked back at the screen. Michael smacked him on the knee.

The movie dragged on for three hours. Once the two teens grew bored of quoting lines to each other, they both fell asleep to the sounds of laser cannons and cheesy lines.

There were only hands at first. Rough, needy hands. Desperate. Then skin. Slick, flawless, screaming skin sliding against him, his heart beating out of his chest. Whimpering. A   
lust-struck puppy. And big dark eyes staring up at him. The darkness they contained went on forever. He could see nothing but those eyes and feel nothing but fingernails cutting   
his back, clinging. Threading fingers through tangled black hair, he leaned down. Whispered right in his ear, “Only say my name.” Breathing heavy like the air was closing in on   
them. A gasp and a trembling voice, “Frankie…”  
He jolted out of the dream with one leg on the couch, one leg off, and a very pressing matter in the front of his jeans.

Frankie looked around, confused. Slowly the day’s events returned to him and he remembered why he was sleeping on the couch. He sat up carefully. His tight jeans were   
doing the bulge in his pants no favors. Frankie looked at Michael who was sleeping peacefully, his arm tucked under his head on the couch. ‘His neck is going to hurt when he wakes up,’ Frankie thought.

The credits were rolling on screen. Frankie got up and flipped on the living room light before quickly sitting back down in the only position that hid his situation. 

Michael stirred and Frankie had only a few seconds to ponder how tranquil he looked when asleep. Michael lifted his head and brought his hand to his neck.

“Hey!” Frankie exclaimed a little too loudly. “It’s past midnight. Do you want me to drive you home? I just have to pee before we go.”

“Um, okay,” Michael said softly, looking at Frankie with furrowed eyebrows. He was still in post-nap disorientation. 

Frankie swirled around and stood up so his back was to Michael. He half-walked half-ran to the bathroom. 

In the privacy of the restroom, Frankie’s mind raced. He pictured presidents with beards and pot-bellies, cats meowing sadly, and finally, when nothing else worked, his dad’s funeral.

That did the trick and within minutes, his little surprise receded to it’s original size. Frankie flushed the toilet proudly, and came out of the bathroom. He drove Michael home   
and didn’t even look at his friend when he started to drift off in the passenger seat.

“How was the weird alien movie?” Patrick asked Frankie as he fiddled with the combination on his locker. 

Frankie gulped. “It was okay. I mean, we’ve both seen it a million times so it wasn’t exciting or anything.”

Patrick smiled, ”Maybe I’ll try and sit through it with you guys sometime.”

“I dunno, Pat. You might go crazy with the bad acting,” Frankie said, relaxing a bit. 

There was no reason for him to freak out over a strange dream. After all, he reminded himself, Frankie had had sex dreams about guys before; singers he admired or actors after   
seeing a film he liked. Though this was the first time he had dreamt about a guy he knew, a boy he was friends with, but it made sense because Michael’s face was the last thing he saw before drifting off.

“Hey,” 

Frankie and Patrick turned around. Sarah Silvano, the blonde girl Frankie had met on his first day at Trinity was standing with her arms crossed. She had a sour look on her tanned face.

“I need to talk to you,” she said staring at Frankie.

“Okay,” Frankie said. He closed his locker and leaned against. He waved an arm to indicate for Sarah to start talking.

“Um,” Sarah shot Patrick a glare. Patrick smiled innocently. “Okay, whatever. Listen, I think you’re a pretty cute guy and all. But you need to figure out just who you want to be   
seen with at this school.”

Frankie chuckled half-heartedly, “Whom are you referring to?”

Sarah looked at Patrick again, this time with disgust. He gave a queenly wave. “I’ve seen you talking to Michael Romanci before. You should know that his family doesn’t have   
the greatest reputation. For your sake, I wouldn’t be nice to him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Frankie rolled his eyes and started to walk away from her.

The girl jumped in front of Patrick and Frankie, spitting, “FY-fucking-I, his brother Danny killed my sister!”

“You can only blame your problems on Michael for so long before it all comes out as the same old song.” Frankie shot back. He was beginning to get angry and he could tell   
Patrick was holding his tongue as tightly as he could.

“Danny killed Jessica and her boyfriend, Jacob. They were both honor students and were celebrating getting into the same college that night. Danny was a fucking lowlife who only wanted to party. Jessica’s friends told me all about him on the day of her funeral. She asked Danny if he was okay to drive and he said yes.”

“So she made her own decision.”

“She fucking died because of that scum!” Sarah’s voice cracked. She shut her eyes momentarily then opened, a new flame of loathing. “I’m only trying to warn you… Danny was trash. He deserved to die but he took my sister with him. His whole family is trash. And Michael is trash too.”

Patrick reached out and slapped Sarah across the face so quickly Frankie barely had time to realize what happened.

“Go fool someone else, honey, once with your eyes and twice with your lies.”

Sarah’s eyes filled with fast, shocked tears. She gritted her teeth and the tears disappeared into rage. She held her stinging cheek and ran from Frankie and Pat.

Frankie desperately tried not to grin. He turned to Patrick with a stern face, “You would hit a girl, Patrick?” He had noticed how much more aggressive Patrick was after Roger   
Armel attacked him.

Pat smoothed her collared shirt and cardigan. “She reaps what she sows, the little bitch. Money can’t buy class. It’s as true as they say.”

Later that day, Michael sat down at their lunchroom table, which originally was his table, the table in the darkest corner. 

“Hi,” he said, glumly.

Patrick swallowed a bite of his salad. “What’s wrong, Michael?”

“That stupid boyfriend of my mom’s has been staying over almost every night.” He looked at Frankie. “He sings in the shower.”

Frankie responded with a knowing giggle, “He’s my next door neighbor. He never closes the bathroom blinds and has a very hairy chest.”

“Really?” Michael groaned. “Thank God he closes the door. But that pig drinks up all the booze. And they fight even more than my dad and mom did. Now that’s saying something.”

“Maybe they’ll break up,” Patrick suggested.

“My mom likes fighting,” Michael said, shaking his head. “She’d pick a fight with a plant.”

Frankie smiled, “Sounds like someone I know.” Michael frowned and moved an eggroll from Frankie’s plate to his own.

Patrick placed his hands on the table and laced his fingers together, “Gentlemen, I have a proposition.”

Michael took a bite of Frankie’s eggroll and Frankie put down the pen he was writing lyrics with.

“Okay, so, there’s this Christmas play, right? Every year the drama club does the nativity story. But since this school has been public for years and years now, they just figured out they can’t do religious themed productions anymore. And since the drama club is dwindling in numbers…”

“Wait, this school used to be private?” Frankie asked.

Michael nodded, “It used to be a private Catholic school until seven years ago. That’s why it’s named Trinity.”

Frankie stared blankly.

“The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit?” Michael explained, crossing himself for emphasis. “Sounds like someone needs church.

“Anyway,” Patrick interrupted impatiently, “Because there aren’t very many people in drama, well, Ms. Palmer asked if I wanted to completely write and direct an original Christmas   
play. Sans the Bethlehem baby and dirty barn scene.”

“She wants you to come up with the whole thing? Whoa.” Frankie thought back to “The New Cancer”. It was really good but short. And Patrick had said it took him months to write   
and compose just that hour long play.”

“Yeah,” Patrick grimaced. Stress lines formed near his mouth. “I accepted but I was wondering… Do you guys want to write it together? Like Michael could write the dialogue and   
Frankie, you could write the music. We could come up with the plot together and make it the greatest Christmas play these plebeians have ever seen!” He clasped his hands and gave his friends pleading eyes. “Please? Thanksgiving is in a couple days and the play is set to premiere on the last day of school before winter break!”

Frankie and Michael looked at each other skeptically.

“I’ve never written dialogue before…” Michael said finally. “I don’t really know anything about plays…”

Frankie mumbled, watching Patrick’s expression crash down, “I’ve never written songs for musicals…”

“It doesn’t matter! Michael your poetry has amazing story-telling capabilities and so do Frankie’s songs! That’s all it is, just story-telling poems and songs. And maybe Michael   
could get the artists of the school to help with costume and background design?”

Michael leaned back in his chair, “There are no true artists at this school.”

“Maybe we could help…” Frankie began. A flicker of hope sprang to Patrick’s eyes. “We could make it really cool. It could be a horror Christmas play with rock music.”

Hearing the term ‘horror’ Michael reconsidered and sighed, “If we did this as a team, it could turn out okay. We could really shock the shit out of some parents.”

Patrick rubbed his hands, “Palmer gave me full-reign. As long as we don’t have sex on the stage, we can write the play any way we want.”

Frankie could see the cogs turning in Michael’s and Patrick’s brains. He grinned, images and songs popping up in his mind as well.

But before the trio could begin brainstorming of possible plot points, Frankie caught the eye of someone walking towards them. It was Joe Boroughs, Sarah’s friend, the big one, along with four other guys; all big, all angry.

“You slap my girlfriend, you little faggot?” Joe started towards Patrick with his fist raised. 

Frankie jumped up but Patrick dove from the blow, causing Joe to fall over his chair. He scrambled up and punched the first person he saw in the head, which was Frankie.

Laughing, Frankie shoved Joe away, yelled, “If that’s the worst you got, better put your fingers back to the keys!” and attacked. 

Frankie could see through fists and shoulders and stomachs, Michael bit a guy who threw Patrick on their table. Another yanked Michael to the ground by his hair. Patrick was holding his own against a senior with five o’clock shadow.

It was three against five, sophomore artists against Trinity’s line-backers and the whole lunchroom was shouting as Frankie, Michael and Patrick nearly won the fight. Three teachers ran in to break up the riot. The principal ripped Frankie and Joe apart herself.

“Is it just me or were we totally winning before the teachers came in?” Patrick whispered. His eyes were half-excited from the thought of winning a fight and half-terrified about being in the principal’s office.

“We were,” Frankie said. His head hurt from Joe’s fist but he was pretty proud of the damage the other team took. Something told him they would reconsider fucking with his friends again.

“I’m going to be expelled,” Michael said suddenly. He was staring at the principal’s empty desk. “I’ve broken every rule in the handbook. They’re going to expel me.”  
Frankie and Pat grew silent. 

The door opened.

“Miss Jackson, we were attacked! Please, we didn’t start anything but we had to defend ourselves!” Patrick shouted as the principal tiredly took her seat. “Don’t expel anyone!” Pat looked towards Michael, biting his lip.

“Enough,” Principal Jackson said. Strangely, she didn’t sound as furious as Frankie expected. “I know. I asked the students eating lunch during that period and they all say the same thing. That Joe Boroughs attacked Patrick Dizco with his group of friends and got more than he bargained for.”

“Exactly!” Patrick cried in joy, “It was a crime of passion!”

“However,” Miss Jackson continued. “I don’t condone violence of any kind in my school and you three committed your fair share of violence.”

“So we were assaulted and we get the punishment? Right, seems fair. You don’t care as long as someone’ll bleed.” Michael growled. Frankie gave a swift kick in the shin.

“Quiet, Mr. Romanci, I see you in this office far too many times and quite frankly, I’m tired of it.” Jackson said through gritted teeth. “Here’s what’s going to happen, boys. I’m going to give you a week of after school detention, including Saturdays and Sundays, and you are going to thank me for not expelling each and every one of you. Am I clear?” She looked expectantly at them.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Frankie said sincerely.

“Thank you,” Patrick whimpered.

Michael crossed his arms and slumped. Frankie pinched his arm.

“Ow! Ugh… Thank you,” he mumbled.

“You’re dismissed. Report to Mr. Ruffin right after school, oh, and Michael?” Michael looked up from his sulking. “I believe that deep, deep down in your heart you’re a good kid. Don’t prove me wrong.” Miss Jackson turned her attention to the stack of files on her desk.

Mr. Ruffin was supposed to separate the trio of teens as they filed into detention with the other ne’er-do-wellers but fortunately, Ruffin had no idea who Michael, Patrick or 

Frankie were. So he seated Frankie and Michael next to each other in the back and Patrick three rows up from Michael.

Frankie tried to stare at the head of the kid in front of him for amusement but when he thought he saw movement between the thin, brown strands, he reeled back.

He looked at Michael who had his head in his hands. Jotting down a couple words, Frankie folded up a note and stuck it under Michael’s elbow.

“Are you ready for another bad poem?” he had written along with the first line of what he hoped could pass as poetry, “My love is a weapon, there’s no second-guessing it.”

Frankie watched Michael smile at the words and write his own. He had added to the poem, “I’ve got a bulletproof heart.”

Smirking, Frankie continued, “Your heart is a grenade, I’ll pull the pin.”

“Let’s blow a hole in this town!” Michael agreed.

“Let the leaves fall off in the summer and let December glow in flames” Frankie gave the paper back.

“Would it be grand to go exactly as you planned?”

Frankie read the reply and nodded with a smile at Michael. His turn, “I only keep myself this sick in the head cause I know how the words get you.”It was almost a real confession to 

Frankie. He knew how much Michael liked his lyrics.

“Tell the truth and give yourself up, God will save you.”

Frankie scoffed as though to say yeah, right. “Say your prayers but let the good times roll, in case God doesn’t show.” He countered.

“We are made from the sharpest things you’d say.”

“I want these words to make things right but it’s the wrongs that make the words come to life…”

"If I’m so wrong how can you listen all night long?"

Frankie stared at Michael’s last line for a long time. When the two hours were up and the teenagers were free to go, Frankie carefully folded up the note and placed it in his front   
pocket. That night he lay in his bed, rereading the note as a poem, then a conversation, then as a poem, then a conversion…


	9. Seasons Change, but People Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael makes lasagna, Patrick drives a car and Frankie draws the worst turkey ever.

Frankie wrote a couple lines down and picked up his guitar again. He tried a C chord, then D. 

“Bleh,” he grumbled. He had re-written the same line over and over with different chords. Nothing sounded right. Even the cork tree seemed to be bowing in disappointment.

He tried again, singing his half-written musical number, “I thought of angels, chocking on their halos,”

Frankie paused and wrote down some notes, scratching out previous ones, “Get them drunk on rose water,” he sang.

His mother’s grey Ford Focus pulled in next to Patrick’s Bentley in the driveway. Oliver and Elisa jumped out of the car, his mother followed.

Oliver dove into the grass next to Frankie, “Frankie, Frankie, guess what?”

“What?” Frankie smiled. He played F/G muted, then un-muted.

Elisa tripped while skipping in the grass. She got back up and yelled, “We tap-danced for show and tell and our teacher said we were so cool! Patrick taught us how!”

“Yeah!” Oliver said, frowning a bit as Elisa stole the spotlight. “Patrick says you have to keep an audience captivated and we asked if Mrs. Peters was captivated and she said she   
was! We’re gonna grow up to be so cool like Patrick is!”

“Hey now, is Patrick cooler than me? Your best big bro?” Frankie teased, adorning a hurt expression.

Oliver’s face became very serious, “Yes.”

‘Ouch,’ Frankie thought. 

“Maybe you could learn how to tap dance, Frankie, or capertate an audience,” Elisa suggested, patting his arm.

“It’s ‘captivate’, dummy!”

“Don’t call me dummy, you jellybean!” Elisa jumped up and Oliver bolted behind the tree. They chased each other, a brutal fight turning quickly into a game of tag.

“Whatcha working on, kid-o?” His mother put her hands on her hips, leaning down to read Frankie’s lyrics.

“Uh,” Frankie flipped his paper over. “It’s not really done yet but Patrick asked Michael and me to help him write an original Christmas-themed play.”

His mom nodded, “Ah, so what’s the play about?”

“Welllll,” the teenager grinned mischievously, “It’s basically like the nativity story except baby Jesus is the anti-Christ born in a roach motel called the Bella Morte. He wants to   
destroy rock music to oppress the people and turn them into soulless leeches so he employs an immortal Santa and his army of carnivorous elves and dragon-reindeer hybrids to   
help him kill off musicians of rock and burn all rock albums. It’s called ‘Save Rock and Roll’.”

“I see, I see,” Frankie’s mom rubbed her chin, “Sounds deep.”

“I know, right? It’s Oscar worthy... I mean,” Frankie corrected himself, “Tony worthy.”

“So, who’s the hero?”

“The creator of rock and roll, mom” Frankie replied, rolling his eyes as if it were obvious. “Satan. He shows up along with the ghosts of the dead musicians to kick ass and take   
names.”

His mom began laughing so hard she nearly fell over, “The school is allowing you three to make this?”

“Kinda,” Frankie shrugged, “The drama teacher said we could so what we want with it. She’s all about pushing the boundaries. But apparently no one goes to see the Christmas   
play anyway so it doesn’t matter.” 

“Mmm,” She looked at Frankie’s guitar, “When does this play premiere?”

“The last school day before winter break, the sixth of December.” 

“Oh wow, that’s not much time. Thanksgiving is tomorrow…”

“Yeah, but we’ve had time to figure out most of the plot while in deten- the tents in the forest behind Patrick’s house. They’re great for focusing and really getting down to   
business.” Frankie managed to say as he backtracked.

“Huh,” Frankie’s mom raised an eyebrow at him, “Okay, Frankie. I’m gonna leave for the library. Just make sure you’re always back here before 6 for the twins. Tents or no tents.” 

What that, his mother winked at him and got back into her car.

‘What a weirdo,’ Frankie thought to himself, smiling. He picked up his pick. Oliver and Elisa continued running circles around the cork tree. Between their piercing screams and his   
unbroken concentration, Frankie didn’t notice the truck loaded with boxes pull into his neighbor’s driveway. He didn’t notice Michael’s mom stumble out of the truck to, loudly,   
greet her boyfriend at the door. He didn’t notice Michael get out of the truck, slamming the door behind him and walking towards the cork until he was literally sitting in front of   
Frankie, smoking a cigarette. 

“Deep in thought, Frankenstein?” Michael asked, puffing on his Kool.

Frankie jumped, startled. “Michael? What are you doing here?”

Michael cleared his throat of smoke and began pulling out blades of grass from Frankie’s lawn, “That’s no way to greet your new neighbor.”

For a moment Frankie didn’t comprehend what Michael said. He studied his tense face and cross-legged body, bent over as he ripped up grass. Finally he realized what looked so different about Michael. He wasn’t wearing his blazer or anything other clothing item covering his arms. It was a hot, sunny fall day and Michael had on a moth-bitten, ancient-looking Alice in Chains t-shirt on. The shirt hung on his thin body like a curtain. His arms were as white as his face and his wrists seemed artistically boney.

“Neighbor?” It suddenly dawned on Frankie. He took his guitar off his lap and leaned it against the cork tree. “Your mom’s moving in with Alexander?”

“Yup,” Michael looked back at his mom. She was running back and forth from her car, bringing in boxes from the 4th and Fremont apartment. “They’re engaged.”

“Oh,” Frankie said. For some reason, this announcement surprised him despite what Michael had said about his mother marrying quickly. He watched Michael watch his mom. It   
seemed to him Ms. Romanci was walking the plank on a sinking ship. She paused in the doorway and yelled out in Italian to Michael.

Michael pressed the burning end of his cigarette into the dirt, “I gotta go help the happy couple.”

“Did you guys need any help? I can carry stuff in and so can the twins,” he smiled at the kids, who never ceased in their frantic chasing game, “They need to be worn out somehow.”

His friend shook his head, “It would be a bad idea. Besides we don’t have that much shit. She’s been moving stuff all day while we were at school. This is the last truckload.” 

Michael got up and started walking away.

“Wait,” Frankie said and promptly forgot what he was planning to say when Michael turned to look at him. He wanted to say something uplifting to cheer Michael up. Instead all he   
managed was, “What’s your mom cooking for Thanksgiving?”

Michael furrowed his brows in confusion, “My mom doesn’t do that holiday. She came to America when she was five and my grandparents never celebrated it.”

“Do you want to come over here?” 

Pulling out another Kool from his pocket, Michael lit the end with a match and mumbled through the cigarette, “Sure.”

Frankie smiled, knowing his mom wouldn’t mind as long as Michael cooked the meal. He returned the Strat to his lap. The autumn sun was already laying low in the sky. Frankie used the last bit of daylight, rewriting his song, the right notes at last coming to his hands.

Thanksgiving started off slow for Frankie. He somehow slept through Alexander’s singing but woke up the sound of angry yelling coming from Michael’s new house. Moving to   
the living room so he wouldn’t have to listen, he watched the news with his pajama-clad mother and then a Disney movie with the twins.

“Hey Frankie!” Patrick shouted as he burst through the door of Frankie’s home. “Sorry I’m so early. I had to ask one of the Mexican cooks for a ride instead of my driver. He went   
home for the holiday,” Smiling and shaking his head, he added, “I constantly thank God for Esteban.”

“It’s fine, Pat. Michael’s not coming over until five though.” Frankie got up and helped Patrick set out a fancy bottle of wine, probably stolen from his parent’s private collection.

“Oh, yeah,” Patrick said, his voice lowered dramatically, “I could hear his mom and that guy fighting when I walked up to the door. It’s kinda cool that Michael lives next door   
though.” He added, not wanting to dampen holiday spirits.

Frankie didn’t say anything back. He pulled out a plastic wrapped bundle of construction paper, brand new safety scissors and a pack of crayons from Patrick’s shopping bags. 

“What are these for?”

“Well,” Patrick smiled, “I figured we could all make those hand turkey things out of construction paper. You know, for Elisa and Oliver. I’ve always seen that sort of thing done on television.”

“Sounds like fun,” Frankie grinned. He pictured a turkey drawn by Patrick and covered in glitter-glue. “Maybe we can get Michael to draw one too.”

Patrick giggled and brought his hands up to his mouth, “He’d probably draw a realistic history scene of the Natives being massacred by the pilgrims.” 

Frankie cracked up. As they laughed, the door opened and Michael leaned in, dropping heavy bags on the floor. 

“Hey,” he said in monotone.

“Hi, Michael, do you want to draw a turkey with us?” Patrick asked in a quiet voice. He held up the construction paper. It stood up straight for a moment in Patrick’s hand before   
falling limp.

Michael blinked at them. Then grinned and started laughing, “Okay, let’s draw some turkeys.”

Frankie put in the family’s DVD of ‘The Little Mermaid’ because Patrick claimed Ursula was a big inspiration to him. Elisa, Oliver, Frankie, Michael and Patrick all crowded around   
the coffee table, paper and crayons spread out like a tornado struck. Frankie’s mother sat on the couch, reading a book.

“Patrick, your turkey looks like a beauty pageant contestant.” Frankie said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“More like the winner of a beauty pageant.” Patrick replied defensively. He studied the drawing closely and grabbed for more glitter.

“Your turkey looks like the worst thing ever, Frankie” Michael said, without looking up from his paper. He was painstakingly adding individual feathers to his turkey with many different shades of purple and grey. Frankie imagined it was difficult doing such a thing with only crayons and magic marker.

Frankie frowned. “You’re not even looking at it.” Though Frankie knew in his heart his drawing was the least imaginative, with only a smiley face and a top hat as defining characteristics.

Michael looked up his artwork and leaned over. “Your turkey looks like the worst thing ever, Frankie” he repeated, staring at Frankie’s paper.

“Mine has dragon wings!” Elisa said, slamming her hand down on the table.

Oliver sat straighter, “My turkey is in a rocket ship.”

“Jesus Christ, Frankie. I mean, look at your siblings’ art.” Michael shook his head, grinning. “At least draw your turkey with a damn bus pass. Elisa’s and Oliver’s turkeys are going places.”

Frankie chuckled to himself and drew a small rectangle in the wing of his turkey. He wrote the words ‘Bus Pass’ on it.

“Now he can get to his job at Turkey Burgerking,” Patrick said, patting Frankie’s arm reassuringly.

The oven alarm rang out from the kitchen. Michael sprung to his feet and went to check on the lasagna he cooked for Thanksgiving dinner.

“It’s done,” he announced proudly.

The teenagers set up paper plates around the dining room table. Frankie found two broken tea lights and tossed them down for decoration. Michael’s lasagna sat steaming in the middle of the table, causing Frankie’s stomach to growl audibly. He had also made some sort of Italian desert fritters. Frankie’s mom didn’t object when the teens poured themselves a bit of Patrick’s wine.

“This is a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner, boys,” she smiled warmly at her son. 

“I’m thankful I’m not at my parent’s house right,” Patrick rolled his eyes. “They always invite their déclassé friends and their spoiled children for a feast. My dad says every year how thankful he is for Cuban imported cigars.”

The group dove into their food. Michael’s lasagna was delicious but filling and Frankie was glad. As he finished his plate, he saw that Elisa and Oliver were already on their second helping and the dish of food was nearly empty. Frankie looked around at his friends and family, eating lasagna off paper plates and drinking hundred-dollar wine out of a plastic cups and was surprised at the sudden sappy emotions he felt. He was as high as a running jet.

The dinner ran a little late. Elisa and Oliver desperately wanted tell Patrick and Michael everything about kindergarten. Frankie barely got a word in edge-wise. Soon after they began throwing away plates and clearing the table though, the twins’ eyes became heavy and they passed out in food comas on the floor. Frankie carried Oliver and his mom carried Elisa to bed. 

“We should work on the play,” Patrick suggested, wiping down the table with a damp cloth.

Michael nodded, “I can show you guys what I have for dialogue so far.”

Frankie got out his guitar so he could show the others his introduction song. Michael, Patrick and Frankie all gathered around the table with their individual notes and pieces of the play splayed around. For an hour and a half they worked intensively. The plot was outlined, lines of dialogue organized with musical numbers. Patrick jumped up every few minutes to demonstrate how a dance scene would look. Frankie was beginning to think they could pull of this Christmas play after all. As he scribbled song titles in between the lines of Michael’s dialogue, there came a loud and quick knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Frankie’s mom spoke up from the coffee maker. She put down her mug and walked to the door.

Michael’s mother stood in the doorway. Her long black hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail. Swaying slightly, she glared at Frankie’s mom.

“How can I help you?” She asked, thrown off by the look of death and, Frankie imagined, the strong smell of alcohol.

“Where is my son!? Where is Michael?” She shouted, squeezing past Mrs. Owens-Bard. “Michael,” she hissed when she saw her son, sinking in the dining room chair, “You need to be home! Why are you here? I don’t know these people. I don’t know this place.” She threw her arms around as if Frankie’s home were a dirty alley.

“You said I could be here, mama!” Michael jumped up from his chair and said something else but in Italian.

Ms. Romanci looked around in drunken confusion, “No, you need to be home!” She began waving her arms around and speaking back in Italian, her voice growing increasingly hysterical.

“Excuse me?” Frankie’s mom tried to calm her down. “I’m so sorry for the confusion. My name’s Trisha Owens-Bard. That is my son, Frankie.” She pointed to him. “Your son and my son are friends from school. They were just working on a school project-“

The intoxicated woman stepped back from his mother. Her face horrified. She turned to Michael, “You’re always fucking trouble. Now you’re embarrassing me in front of our new neighbors. Come on!”

She grabbed Michael’s arm and roughly yanked him towards the door. “No!” Michael yelled, wrenching away. “You’re embarrassing yourself!”

Michael’s mother looked shocked. She lifted her arm to slap him. Michael quickly shut his eyes, anticipating the pain. Frankie started to get up.

“Hey!” Mrs. Owens-Bard grabbed her arm mid-hit. “This is my home. And I think it’s time you leave.”

Ms. Romanci backed down. She looked at Michael again and spoke Italian, this time hushed as if it were in English. She stumbled out the door, slamming it behind her.

“Those fritter things were really good, Michael. What were they called again?” Patrick squeaked, picking up his pencil.

Frankie’s mom took a deep breath and walked back into the kitchen. She poured out her cold coffee and set the cup in the sink.

Michael set down in his chair. He picked up the tablature of Frankie’s newest song and said, “I think this should be performed after the birth scene.”

Frankie nodded, “Sounds good. Then we can establish the scene better.”

They continued working, no one saying anything that didn’t need to be said.

The next day was Friday but school was off for a short Thanksgiving break. Frankie took the Bentley, picking up Michael first then Patrick and they headed to the nearest thrift store.

“What about this one?” Michael asked, holding up a blood-red sequin dress with a tear in the chest.

“What’s the size?” Frankie said, touching the rip and picturing the dress squeezed onto Neil O’Brian, the drama student who volunteered to play Satan in ‘Save Rock and Roll’.

“A women’s eight.”

“That’s perfect. Neil’s managed a six before,” Patrick smiled. He was eyeballing a pair of leather pants. Patrick was playing Jesus, the character with the most lines and the most drama, though if he could he would clone himself to play every part. “I’m thinking all leather for Jesus, what do you guys think?”

Frankie thought about it, “Where are we gonna find a leather dress?”

“The mall?” Michael suggested, “My mom has one we could use as long as we don’t tear it up. But Patrick, you’ll have to do some serious tucking. It’s as short as legally possible.”

“Perfect!” Patrick cried out. “I’ll wear stockings, fishnet of course.”

It was Michael’s idea to have the main characters dressed in drag. Frankie couldn’t think of an idea more suited to the theme.

“Excuse me?” Patrick waved to an employee with a twisted up frown and hunched shoulders. “Do you have something like this with white trim?” He asked. Pat held up a long violet prom dress.

Frankie and Michael flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry,” Michael pulled Patrick’s hand down. “He’s socially-inept.”

As the trio drove home, bundles of clothing tied up in bags in the trunk, it was oddly quiet in the car. Frankie was just beginning to relax and enjoy the silence when Patrick spoke up.

“Frankie, will you teach me how to drive?”

“Sure, Pat. When do you want to learn?”

“How about right now?” Patrick pointed ahead. “There’s an empty parking lot behind that church.”

“Okay,” Frankie shrugged, turning into the lot, “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Frankie, no!” Michael screamed from the back. He sat up from his laying position.

“What, what is it?” 

“Not in the Bentley! He’ll crash it!”

Frankie laughed while Patrick crossed his arm indignantly. “He won’t crash it, Michael. We’re not drag-racing. I’m just gonna show him how to park and turn and stuff. Besides it’s not even your car.”

Michael was quiet. And then, “Take me home first. I can’t watch this travesty.”

“I won’t wreck the car, Michael. For your information, I happen to have played my fair share of Mario Kart.”

“This is a Bentley, not a fucking video game!”

“So? I’ll buy a new one if I crash it.”

“Why do you even own this car if you have no respect for it!?”

“Calm down, calm down!” Frankie screamed from the driver seat. He paused to collect himself and then turned around to face Michael, “It will be fine. Don’t worry about the   
stupid car.”

Approximately fifteen minutes later, Michael stood scowling in front of the flat tire. He took a black hair tie from around his wrist and pulled his hair into a baby ponytail.

“It’s a flat tire. The curb could’ve caused a lot more damage.”

Michael didn’t reply. 

“Michael,” Frankie threw his arms up, “Come on.”

“At least the curb was there and not an animal.” Pat tried to look on the bright side.

After a few moments of growling and grumbling, Michael looked at Frankie, “Well, go get the spare.”

Frankie looked at Patrick, who shook his head slowly. He looked back at Michael.

“Seriously? Every car has a spare tire. Just go check.”

Frankie walked back to the trunk and opened it. He stood staring at the empty space for a while before Michael stomped over, clearly frustrated.

Michael pulled at a small indented handle in the bottom of the trunk and lifted it. Underneath there lay a spare tire and various car tools Frankie could not name.

Waving to the tire as if to ask, ‘Really, Frankie? Really?’ Michael began removing a couple of the tools, handing them to Patrick.

“This is a jack. Shove this fucking thing under the fucking car and jack it the fuck up, can you handle that?” Michael dropped a heavy, greasy tool into Frankie’s hands.

“Yeah,” Frankie sheepishly grinned. “Frankie is sorry Frankie is so stupid.”

Michael made a face at him.

Patrick stood with his hands on his hips, smiling grandly at the scene, “Well, well, I should hire you two as my racing team. Who knew there were people in this world that still   
changed tires?”

“What the hell does your dad do when he pops a tire?” Michael asked, straining to lift the spare out of the trunk space. Frankie could hear him and knew he needed help but didn’t want to offer unless Michael asked him directly.

“His driver changes it.” Patrick said as though it were obvious.

“… Frankie? Can you help me?” Michael finally asked. He let go of the tire. 

Frankie smiled to himself and got up to help. 

“Did one of your stepdads teach you how to change a tire?”

“Yeah, the first one. He was Irish like my dad and thought it was ridiculous a five year old didn’t know how to change a tire yet.”

“Your dad is Irish?” Frankie lifted the tire out, grunting. Michael attempted to help but was generally useless. 

“Yup. His name is Bill Webber.”

“My dad was Irish too. And other things, like Scottish and French.”

“My dad is German.” Patrick said, watching with fascination as Frankie struggled with the tire.

Together, Frankie and Michael managed to replace the tire. Patrick clapped and they all piled back into the Bentley, knowing Michael would never agree to Pat drive it ever again.


	10. A Northern Downpour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feed your jewelry to the sea.

The clouds on the day of the Christmas play were ominous, looming over Frankie’s home like an annoying relative. Frankie woke up with a pit in his stomach that stayed there until two hours before the performance. He brought his guitar and his sheet music to the school.

“It’ll be okay. No one’s coming to the play anyway. No one ever comes.” Patrick said, patting Frankie’s arm. He was shaking a bit as he practiced his songs.

Michael was standing off near the curtain, pacing and muttering his lines as narrator, “Hail, hail. Cause the king is gone and if you don’t stop believing, we’ll keep believing. You got your leather on and live the like that you’re making. Shots that you’re taking. It doesn’t matter if the words don’t mean a thing. You gotta kiss that ring.”

Patrick wasn’t nervous. He performed every day of his life. But Frankie knew he had something on his mind, unrelated to the play.

Finally, Patrick gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I wanted to wait to tell you guys until after the show but um, I’m afraid my thoughts will come through in the acting. My parents are getting divorced.”

Frankie stopped playing his guitar and Michael halted as well.

“I have something,” Michael said after the stunned silence. “Let’s go outside for a minute.”

Frankie and Patrick followed Michael outside. They stood under the overhanging roof of the school as the first drops of rain painted the concrete dark.

“Here. It’s for good luck. I rolled them just for today.” Michael opened his hand to reveal three fat blunts.

“It’s just weed, right?” Patrick asked, excitedly taking a joint.

Frankie lit his blunt and held the smoke in his lung for a long time.

“It’s not a big deal” Patrick said. He coughed. “I’m actually relieved. They hate each other so much. Why would anyone want to live like that?”

Michael looked out to the sky, “Money. Stature. My mom marries out of some twisted view of misery. She’s only ever been in love with suffering.”

“Some people exchange smoke rings, some people exchange wedding rings.” Frankie said aloud, feeling the effects of the potent pot tickle his fingertips. “My parents only married because my mom got pregnant. But they loved each other to the end. My mom still loves my dad.”

“It’s sad,” Patrick whispered. “The past year they didn’t even try to lie each other anymore. My dad sensed something in my mom, maybe desperation. All he cared about was another day, another dollar. If my mom had the proper words to drag this out even more, she would tell him but she has nothing left to sell him.”

The teens smoked their drugs. The clouds had enough of waiting and began dumping buckets of rain on the town. When the friends finished, they returned backstage, the other actors had showed up and were running around frantically.

“What’s going on?” Patrick asked a passing kid. Frankie couldn’t remember his name but knew he was playing an elf. He was wearing a tight, green halter top and a gold mini skirt. There was fake blood painted on his mouth.

“The football game was rained out. Everybody went inside the school and saw the sign for the play. It’s a full house!” The guy explained. He ran off to the dressing rooms.

“Hey, what’s up guys? Ready to save rock and roll? Smells like you’re ready.” Ms. Palmer appeared and gave a thumbs up and a grin.

Patrick’s face broke into the biggest smile Frankie had ever seen, “Fuck yes, we’re ready! Guys, it’s a full house! That never happens!”

“Yeah, I’m ready. I’m ready to go out on a stage and perform a play we all wrote together in front of a crowd of students and teachers that hate my guts. Sure.” Michael stared at the ground. It he hadn’t been high, Frankie imagined he would look more distressed.

“Fuck ‘em, Michael,” Frankie nudged his arm. “Even if they liked us, they wouldn’t understand, right? They’re just cogs in the murder machine.”

Michael looked up at Frankie and smiled. “Let’s kill this fucking thing.”

“That’s the spirit!” Palmer shouted. 

They took their places and the curtain opened.

The first half of the play was something Frankie knew he’d never forget or ever remember. All he did was play his guitar and sing his songs with every ounce of strength he had in him. He pictured every person that ever made him sick to his stomach with rage and disgust and he attacked them with his words, tearing out their ill hearts and showing it to them.

Frankie had no idea how the others did because he was busy focusing. He was so focused; he couldn’t see or hear anything in the real world. Every person who caught his eye in the audience was like a Picasso painting, ears on their foreheads and smiles on their necks.

During the intermission, Frankie ran to the bathroom. He barely made it to his knees before vomiting into the toilet. He washed out his mouth with water and returned to the stage for the second half.

It was when the last note rang out in the small theater packed with people that all of Frankie’s brain cells came back to life at once. He ripped off his guitar as it seemed to be pulling him through the floor. The audience was completely quiet. Frankie, Michael and Patrick retreated backstage and listened.

Half of the crowd booed, screaming out accusation of religion discrimination and hate crimes. The other half was louder. They jumped to their feet, clapping and yelling for an encore.

“It’s just like real rock and roll,” Frankie whispered, exhausted. He smiled weakly at Michael and Patrick.

“They’re booing,” Patrick was grinning ear to ear, “Why am I so proud that they’re booing?”

Frankie shook his head, his empty stomach swirling, “I don’t care what they think as long as it’s about me.”

Michael looked so happy, he was tearing up. “We murdered that play. They’ll never forget us. And that’s the point of art. To never forget what the artist did.” And in that moment of absolute satisfaction, the grandiose middle finger the boys had just given to the society that rejected them, he did something very uncharacteristic. He reached out his trembling arms and wrapped them around Patrick and Frankie.

“Come on!” Patrick said after the group hug. He grabbed a hand of Michael and a hand of Frankie. “We need to make a final bow.”

They went back on stage with the rest of the cast. The crowd had settled down but revived it’s conflicting feelings when the teens bowed. There were parents shouting “Satanists!”’ and “Worst play ever!” There were others, people Frankie didn’t know, grinning and laughing, elated by the public controversy.

Frankie saw his mother sitting with Ms. Palmer in the front row. She had mascara tears running down her face and was clapping furiously. She caught Frankie’s eyes and mouthed, “I’m so proud of you.”

“Hey,” Patrick yelled over the cheering and jeering, “My dad is here.” 

Frankie looked out and sure enough, Albert Diszo was standing with a young woman in a tight black dress. They were both clapping politely.

‘Weird,’ Frankie thought. They returned back stage.

The crowd began clearing out and Frankie changed into a new outfit. Although his job in the play didn’t require a costume, he was glad he had brought a change of shirt and   
jacket. The clothes he had worn during the show were soaked with sweat and smelled faintly of puke.

When he came out of the dressing room, Patrick was talking to his dad with an awkward, confused look on his face. Eventually Albert shook Pat’s hand like he had finished a   
business deal he wasn’t completely happy with and walked away.

“What’d he say?” Frankie asked as soon as Mr. Dizco was out of sight.

“He said he liked the play,” Patrick shrugged. “He said he wanted to see more of my drama work and that he was sorry he hasn’t been able to come to a lot of my plays. He blamed it on work and my mom, which is bullshit, of course. He’s always had the opportunity. But you know, whatever.”

“Are you okay? You seem pissed.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Stupid, vapid girlfriend of his wants to be my new mother dearest. She’s 23. I think she talked him into coming. Well, good. I hope the play freaked him out.”

Michael came out of the backstage bathroom looking paler than normal. “I threw up. But I’m okay now.”

Frankie nodded approvingly, “I puked during the intermission.”

“Amateurs.” Patrick sighed in fake disgust then smiled as Mrs. Owens-Bard walked in.

“Oh, Frankie, that was fantastic! It reminded me of when I saw Kiss with your father. Very rock and roll.” His mom embraced Frankie so tightly the air was knocked out of his lungs. “You really knocked ‘em dead. All of you.”

“Thanks, mom,” Frankie smiled, only a little embarrassed by the attention. But his friends were blushing too, as though it were their own mothers fawning over them.

“Hey Frankie, um,” Patrick looked at Frankie then Michael, “Do you guys wants to stay over my place tonight? The night is young. I feel like we should celebrate.”

“Sure,” Michael said, a mischievous look gracing his happy face.

Frankie looked at his mother. “It is okay, mom?”

Frankie’s mom took in Michael’s expression of trouble and Patrick attempt to appear innocent. “Hmmmm,” She tapped her chin and gave a slow grin, “Be good. And if you can’t be good, be careful.”

“So, where are we really going?” Frankie asked about an hour later as the teens got into the Bentley in the parking lot of the school. 

“To my place,” Patrick quipped. 

“Really?” Michael frowned, disappointed. He lay down in the back of the car as usual and stared at the ceiling.

“Yes,” Pat flipped down his passenger mirror and began fixing his eyeliner. “I have to pick up some things and then,” He shut the mirror, “I was thinking we could go to the beach.”

“The beach? That’s about forty minutes away…” Frankie trailed off. He turned onto the winding street leading to Patrick’s mansion.

“And it’s already ten o’clock. Are you planning on skinny-dipping? It’s been raining all day.” Michael added.

“No,” Patrick said. He turned away from his friends and stared out the window. “I need just need to see the ocean right now. Are you two really afraid of a little northern downpour?”

Frankie stopped the car in front of the mechanical black gate. Pat got out of the Bentley and ran into his house.

“What do you think he’s getting?”

“Hopefully cheap whiskey we can shoot back like holy water.” 

Patrick slide through the slightly open gate, carrying two burlap shopping bags, the reusable kind he had with him after the fiasco with his parents weeks ago.

“Don’t worry, boys. It’s nearly all booze and a couple of priceless artifacts.”

“Priceless artifacts?” Frankie raised an eyebrow.

“What kind of booze?” Michael wanted to know.

“Pinnacle, Grey Goose, Jack Daniel’s and a couple of imported drinks I wouldn’t dare butcher the names.” Patrick listed. Michael’s eyes grew joyful. Pat held out his open palm to Frankie. In his hand sat two glittering wedding rings. “All their lives have been a dream of fantastic posing greed. I’m feeding their worthless jewelry to the sea.”

Looking at the rings, Frankie understood. Patrick needed to do this. He wouldn’t live like his parents, Pat already knew that much. But now, he needed to let go of the small part of him that still wanted his mother and father’s love. They could never truly love anyone. The jewelry sparkled brightly but they only reflected light. The rings had no light of their own.

The drive was the calm before another storm. The sun burnt out before they arrived at the darkening beach and a clear, full moon was climbing the night sky.

“Hey moon, please forget to fall down!” Patrick yelled to the sky, cupping his hand to his mouth. Michael and Patrick had already started drinking from the bottles of booze.   
Frankie chose the strongest liquor to catch up.

“I thought you said it was going to rain again, huh Michael?” Patrick took another swig of Grey Goose.

“It will later. See the clouds?” Michael pointed far away to a group of grey clouds.

“Oh,” Patrick said and then screamed out, “Sorry clouds! Didn’t see ya there! We’re still friends, right?”

Michael laughed. Frankie gulped down his booze until he was unsteady and grinning stupidly. He took off his shoes to enjoy the cold sand.

“You guys are golden, you know that? Friends are golden.” Frankie said. He looked out to the endless black ocean. He noticed that if he watched one wave for too long, the waves multiplied and knocked against each other. He tried counting them but gave up after three, “Patrick! Where’s the main event?”

“Yes, yes! A pretty picture but the scenery is so loud!” Patrick took the rings out from his pocket. “We are gathered here today to mourn the death of the wedded couple Albert and   
Vivian…”

“Boo! No one liked them anyway!” Michael shouted encouragement.

Patrick gave Michael a sour look, annoyed at the interruption. He held his hand up again, then lowered it, “I forgot what I was going to say.”  
Frankie finished the speech, taking drinks between each sentence, “Their love was just a pyramid scheme but we’re dizzy on dreams. If you ask them, two’s a whole lot lonelier than one. Baby, they should’ve left their love in the gutter where they found it! Cause they think their only crime is that they got caught!”

“Yes!” Patrick screamed. He bolted towards the sea, splashing through the water, swinging his arm back and throwing the wedding rings as far as he could. Frankie laughed hard, clutching his uneasy stomach as Michael ran after him, pulling Patrick back from the upcoming waves that would have drown him.

“Ow, fuck!” Patrick cried out as Michael dragged him. “That goddamn ocean bit my foot!”

Holding up his bare and bloody foot, Frankie saw the shallow cut, probably from a seashell, Patrick had sustained. He laughed again. “That’s what you get, Virginia Wolfe!”

“Hmph!” Patrick crossed his arms and plopped down in the sand, “I did not have rocks in my pocket, Frankie, only pocket change. I’m just a fragile Capricorn.” He lay down on the ground and curled up, “I’m gonna take a nap.”

Frankie and Michael grinned at each other. “Okay, Patrick,” Michael patted his shoulder. Patrick looked up and smiled, drunkenly at him. 

“Sweet dreams,” Frankie added. “We’re gonna drink the rest of your alcohol.” He winked at Michael.

“Fine, fine,” Patrick waved at them. He closed his eyes, “Consider me a castle under siege with a sign outside that says ‘Leave me alone’.”

Frankie motioned to Michael to follow him. They walked a ways down the shore, bringing the alcohol with them. Finding a good distance away from the sleeping Patrick, they opened more of the booze.

“We hold in our hearts the sword and the faith. Swelled up from the rain, clouds move like a wraith. Well after all, we’ll lie another day and through it all, we’ll find some other way.” Michael sang, softly. He had almost finished the Pinnacle. He looked beautiful, his skin radiating like the moon.

Frankie clutched his Jack Daniel’s. It was empty. “You’re a really good singer. Your voice doesn’t sound like everyone else’s.”

Michael looked at him like he had forgotten Frankie was there. “You think so?” He smiled and sang again, “We could be perfect one last night. And die like star-crossed lovers when we fight.”

“You’re a bottled star. You’re just like Mars. You shine in the sky.”

Frankie watched as Michael’s smile faded and quickly asked, “What’s wrong?”

Michael bit his lip and swallowed, “Nothing.” With shivering hands, he tore the plastic off one of the imported whiskeys.

“Are you cold?” he asked. Frankie knew the question came out louder and more panicked than needed but he wanted to make sure Michael heard him over the rushing waves.

“I dunno. A little.” Michael popped off the top of the bottle and took a drink. 

Frankie ripped off his leather jacket and wrapped it around Michael before he could protest. Frankie had just enough time to think about how cute Michael looked in his clothes before his jerking movements knocked his friend to the ground.

Michael yelped in pain. The alcohol lay next to him, darkening the ground.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” Frankie threw himself to the sand as punishment. He landed on top of Michael.

“You’re sorry so you jump on top of me?” Michael laughed under him. If he hadn’t had so much to drink, Frankie was sure he’d be killing him right now.

Frankie sat on his friend’s stomach, making sure to keep most of his weight off the smaller teen. “Ha, ha. This is how we met, remember, Michael?” 

“I remember…” Michael’s face became sad again. Frankie strained, trying to focus on his face.

“Why are you so sad?” Frankie whispered. “Don’t be sad, Michael. You’re prettiest when you smile.”

Frankie touched the ends of Michael’s black hair, splayed out on the sand. The sky began dripping rain down, slowly. He leaned down and, with liquid courage coursing through his veins, pressed his lips to Michael’s, kissing him slowly because he had run out of things to say.

Michael’s dark eyes were wide with disbelief as Frankie pulled away. “Why did you kiss me?”

Frankie got off on Michael and sat on his legs. He picked up the spilled bottle of booze and drank the remaining liquid. “Do you want a back rub?”

Michael’s face became even more confused. “What?”

“You said your back hurt in the car. I massage my mom’s back all the time. She gets stressed from work. Come on, trust me.” Frankie grinned, forgetting quickly about the kiss.

“Um, I don’t know, Frankie. Are you going to puke on me?” Michael looked up at the sky, trying to process his thoughts.

Frankie shook his head earnestly and attempted to cross himself the way he had seen Michael do it.

Michael giggled, “You’re such an idiot… okay.”

Frankie pressed his knuckles into Michael’s back after he had turned around. He rubbed at the knots he found, slowly but deeply. The rain was coming down harder, soaking the   
teens. Patrick turned up, sleepily laying back down after he had found where Frankie and Michael were.

After a while when Michael was no longer groaning from the massage, Frankie looked down at him. He was asleep, shaking once again from the freezing rain.

Frankie rolled off his back and grabbed his discarded jacket. He lay the jacket on top of Michael and curled up next to him. Before drifting off, Frankie laced his fingers with Michael’s, hoping this, at least, would keep him warm through the night.


	11. We Don’t Need Another Song about California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nana Bard and her cactus-filled house.

It was the sound of rushing water and hushed laughter that brought Frankie into semi-consciousness. He tried to ignore the sounds. He could feel that his body was wet up to his shoulders but he let it go, relaxing and attempting to fall back into the blissful emptiness of his sleep. 

The sloshing water sound again. And suddenly, a not-so-gentle wave smacked Frankie in the face. He pushed himself up, chocking on the salt water that had attacked his open month. The taste was awful but the burning in his nose was worse.

Michael and Patrick burst into laughter. Frankie weakly looked up to see them near to tears, holding their stomachs. Patrick fell back into the sand.

“That was so worth the wait!” Michael giggled, trying to catch his breath.

“I told you it would be!” Patrick got up, grinning. He waged his finger at Frankie, who was still trying to get the sand and salt out of his mouth, “That’s what you get, young man, for spilling the Stolichnaya. That’s my father’s favorite brand and one of the five bottles he brought back from his trip to Russia.’

Frankie sat up straight. The tide was coming in and he was sitting in a foot of water. He blinked a couple of times, trying to remember the night before. The sun was frying his shoulders and partially wet hair.

“Where’s my hat?” Frankie panicked, splashing around in the sea water.

“It’s right here. I made sure it didn’t get wet.” Michael said. He held up Frankie’s father’s hat and placed it on his head, smiling. “Do I look like a hipster know-it-all?”

Frankie grinned, relieved to the hat unharmed. “More like a car salesmen.”

“Come one, guys. We have to get going. Frankie, you and your family are leaving for Nevada tomorrow, right?” Patrick asked. He stood and brushed the sand from his wrinkled jeans.

“Uh, yeah,” Frankie didn’t remember telling Patrick about his family’s trip but he must have. The day before was a blur, even the non-drunken parts. Every year the Owens-Bard family goes to his paternal grandmother’s Nevada home for Christmas. He always both dreaded and looked forward to the holiday. Frankie’s grandmother was cool but she brought back memories of his father that he hated thinking about. Once again he would have to deal with his dad not spending Christmas with the family, not being there to see the twins grow up.

“Then let’s go home. I really need a shower.” Patrick said, looking down at him. “I smell like a salty drunk.”

Michael pushed himself up, taking off the hat and handing it to Frankie. Frankie started to get up when something sparkling in the clear water caught his eye.

“Hey, what you are you doing here? The beach is closed!” A police officer shouted from a parked car in the parking lot. He took out his baton and began sprinting towards the teens.

“Shit, the cops! Let’s go!” Michael shouted gleefully. Patrick agreed and they both shot towards the Bentley.

Frankie grabbed the wedding rings Patrick had thrown into the ocean the night before. The sun was glaring off their shiny surfaces. He jumped to his feet, turned and tossed the rings back into the ocean. 

“Fucking stay there,” Frankie mumbled and ran to the car, laughing along with his friends as they ditched the cop.

Frankie spent the rest of the day depressed and very hung-over. His leather jacket was completely ruined from the rain so he had to get rid of it. The smell permeated every surface of the Bentley. Michael insisted Frankie toss the destroyed coat in a trashcan before driving back to their town.

Returning home, Frankie puked up anything he tried to eat. He spent the day lying on his floor, staring at his ceiling, trying to recall past events. He brought back images of the play, of driving to the beach, of Patrick’s bloody foot.

However as horrible as Frankie felt that day, the next day was a million times worse.

He woke up with a sneeze. A painful sneeze that squeezed the pressure in his brain. Frankie groaned, rolling over and pressing clammy hands to his fevered forehead. ‘Never again,’ He thought to himself. ‘Never again will passing out drunk in the rain on a beach sound like a good idea.’

His mother came in to comfort her sick son after she heard his moaning. 

“You didn’t catch this from sleeping in Patrick’s ‘tents’ did you?” his mom asked. She raised her hand to form air quotes around the word ‘tents’.

Frankie miserably shook his head. The walls around his mom seemed to be moving. “Mom, it’s… complicated.”

“Well, honey,” Mrs. Owens-Bard sighed. “I’ll call Nana and tell her we’re going to be coming down after you get better, okay? Although if you did die in the desert there’d be plenty of places to bury you, wouldn’t there?” She patted his arm, softly.

“Ugh,” Frankie pulled his blanket closer. 

His mother smoothed Frankie’s hair, slick with sweat. “I’m going to go to the store to get you some cough medicine. Why don’t you try moving to the couch so I can make you soup later, alright baby?”

Frankie just borrowed deeper in the blanket. He thought about the last time his mom made soup. “Mommy maybe, uh, you could pick up some of the pre-made canned soup? The stuff you just heat up?”

Trisha stood up, smiling, “I wouldn’t dream of anything else, Frankie.”

His mom had taken the twins to a babysitter so they wouldn’t catch Frankie’s illness. He had the whole house to himself for the first time in a long time. It was a Sunday, Frankie was on winter vacation and he was sick as a dog.

He shakily got to his feet, dragging his comforter along for the ride. Frankie trudged pathetically to the couch. When he landed face-down in the pillows, his energy was sapped. Swirls of nausea snaked around his belly like eels. Frankie reached from the remote.

That’s when the door bell rang.

Frankie shut his eyes, hoping he had hallucinated the sound. But no, the door bell rang again after a moment of waiting.

“Come in!” he croaked from the couch. Frankie had half-wished for a serial killer to enter and end his misery.

But it was no serial killer. It was Michael, wearing black skinny jeans and a black sweater as if it were any normal day. But when Frankie looked in his eyes, he could tell Michael was just as sick as he was, possibly more. Michael looked like death warmed over. His eyes had dark circles, his skin was slightly green. 

Frankie’s foggy mind worked slowly to figure out why Michael would bother wearing skinny jeans when he was clearly ill. 

Michael didn’t wait for Frankie to question him. He collapsed on the floor, putting his head on the coffee table.

“Hey Michael,” Frankie managed to say.

Michael opened his eyes and whispered, “Hey,” He placed a plastic container of soup on the table. “I made you some soup. I wasn’t sure if your mom would make you any since you said she can’t cook.”

“Oh… Thanks,” Frankie bit his lip. ‘Is Michael delirious? How did he stay standing long enough to cook soup from scratch? How did he pull on those jeans without passing out?’ His brain turned like a clock with jammed gears. 

“Yeah, so, don’t ask what’s in it… it’ll make you want to puke,” Michael gave a very fragile grin. “But it’ll heal you faster than any medicine…didn’t want you to miss out on Christmas with your grandma.”

“Wow, that’s really nice of you,” Frankie lifted the lid on the container and looked at the soup. It smelled heavenly but looked like sewage.

Michael coughed. He seemed to be having trouble sucking in enough air to form complete sentences.

Frankie frowned and closed the container, “Michael, shouldn’t you be home in bed? You’re gonna make yourself sicker by walking around. You should be resting. I’ll bet Patrick is at home in bed.”

Shrugging, Michael smiled at him. “Patrick’s…probably tap-dancing somewhere. I’m okay…”

Scoffing, Frankie opened his mouth to lecture him more but Michael interrupted.

“I was thinking…about the other night…”

“Oh,” Frankie blew out a puff of air that was supposed to be a laugh. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”

Michael lifted a hand to his mouth and started chewing on a fingernail, “You have?” His eyes were filled with anxiety.

“Yeah, I mean, man. I’ve been shit-faced before but never that shit-faced. I was hung over all day yesterday and couldn’t remember a goddamn thing.”

Frankie was surprised when Michael’s expression changed so swiftly. His face switched from hurt to anger and back again. “What?”

“I don’t remember anything…” Frankie held up his hands. “Why? Did I do something embarrassing?”

Michael struggled to his feet. He must have felt a rush from the sudden movement because he nearly fell back down again. He had to grab the arm of the couch for stability.

“Michael!” Frankie cried. He reached out to help him.

Michael jerked his arm away from Frankie’s touch. “I have to go now…” he swallowed and pressed a fist to his chest.

“What? What did I say? Michael?”

Michael just shook his head, lips shut tight. He grabbed the container of soup from the table and walked towards the door, rocking and almost knocking down a picture frame.

“But, what about my” the door slammed. “… soup?”

Frankie slowly leaned back on the couch, his head twisting and turning.

The door opened again, this time with his mother walking through. She dumped a plastic grocery bag on the kitchen table, “Frankie? I bought mushroom soup, is that okay?”

Lying down on the couch, Frankie pulled the blanket over his eyes. “It’s fine,” his muffled voice said through the cloth.

Two days later, Frankie sat in the front seat of his mother’s car, flipping through radio stations.

“Their last hopes on him they’ve hung. And they weighed him like a ton. But perhaps for him he’d none much left to lose!” The radio sang.

“Turn it down a little, babe. I don’t want the kids to wake up.” Frankie’s mom said. 

Frankie obliged. The kids had finally gone through the four stages of a road trip: patience, fighting, whining, and sleeping. The Owens-Bard family had taken to the road at 7am   
sharp and it was nearly 3pm now. But as Frankie stared at the miles of desert and sun through the car window, he knew they were almost there.

Just as he thought, a small house with peeling pink paint sprung up on the horizon. The shutters were a cheery, faded green and the house was surrounded by dangerous-  
looking plants. There was a beat-up truck sitting in the driveway.

“Finally,” Frankie mumbled. He took his boots off the dashboard. “Should I wake up the twins?”

“Nana’s house!” Elisa exploded before Frankie could wake her.

Oliver jolted from the noise. He rubbed his eyes and donned a grumpy face. “Why does Nana have to live so far away, mommy?”

“She likes her cactuses, Oliver, and out here she can grow as many as she wants.” His mother explained.

Frankie looked to his mom and grinned. He twirled his finger in a circle near his head. 

His mother gave him a light pinch on the arm. 

The door of the little home in the middle of nowhere flew open as the family’s car parked. Frankie’s grandmother hopped down the stairs. Her grin seemed blindingly white on   
her tanned face and her eyes crinkled in the light. She was wearing what she always wore: jeans shorts, hiking boots, an old t-shirt and a million different pieces of Shoshone jewelry.

“Trish! I just made chili for lunch! Frankie, baby!” His nana attacked Frankie as he came out of the car, squeezing the blood back into his legs.

“Kiddos! Elisa, Oliver!” She turned her attention to the twins and hugged them as well.

“Hey Ginny,” Frankie’s mom embraced her. “The kids had their lunches in the car. Tuna and bananas.”

“Well, then Frankie and I can eat it, right? He’s a growing boy!” Frankie’s nana slapped him on the back. 

Frankie winced from the force and replied, “Sure, Nana. I’m a little hungry.” 

“But first,” She clapped her hands together, “Let’s get all your things inside and have a grand tour, ay? You’ve got to meet my plants, Trish, you’ll just love them.”

Frankie couldn’t imagine there was anything his mom cared about less than plants. But still, his nana gave this tour every year and his mother was used to zoning out during her cactus-talk.

“And that one’s Gerard. That one’s Mikey. That’s Joe. That’s Spencer.” Frankie’s grandma pointed out each new plants with pride. Some were smaller than newborn kittens, some were taller than him, but each had a name.

“Of course, Pete, you remember from last Christmas. Ryan, Bob, Andy, Ray, Brendon…”

There were cactuses indoors and out. When the tour led back outside, the twins had had enough.

“Nana, can we go play?” Oliver asked in a high-pitched plea.

“Yes, yes, you can, little dears,” Frankie’s grandma patted Oliver on the head. “Remember what I said last year about snakes and scorpions?”

Oliver shut his eyes to remember, “Don’t touch them?”

“That’s right!”

Elisa and Oliver sped off.

“I better put away some of our things,” Frankie’s mom piped up. “I brought the kids’ presents, you know, and I don’t want them getting into my suitcase and finding them early. Frankie,” She put a hand on her son’s shoulder, “You can fill me in on the details of the new plants, right?”

Frankie stared into the eyes of his mother. ‘Traitor,’ his eyes said.

His mother happily left, leaving only Virginia Bard and her grandson.

But to his surprise, there was no more talk of plants. “Let’s have some of that chili, Frankie,” His nana said, “The tour is finished anyway. I want to hear all about your new school.”

Sitting on a slightly crooked stool in the kitchen, Frankie grew nervous. The chili his grandmother was dishing out to him was the color of blood, with big chunks of pepper and hot sauce floating to the surface.

“Tell me about your girlfriend, bud.”

Frankie swallowed a spoonful of chili. He pressed a hand to his mouth, feeling his taste buds peeling off and his eyes tear up. He grabbed his glass of ice tea and washed the burning down his throat. “I don’t have a girlfriend, Nana.”

“Then tell me about your boyfriend.”

Frankie smiled and rolled his still-watery eyes. “I don’t have a boyfriend either, Nana.”

“No girlfriend, no boyfriend,” His grandma shook her head, disapprovingly. “You know, Frankie boy, you look just like your father when he was a teenager. That kid,” She grinned ear-to-ear, “He was always trying to romance the cheerleaders with covers of folk songs. He was an old soul. Like you. What about that Amber girl you mentioned last Christmas?   
The one from your history class?”

“Ugh,” Frankie moaned aloud. “Don’t remind me, Nan. She turned out to be someone I wish I never knew.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, kid.” She drank from her glass of tea. “So there’s no one you’re interested in? No new friends?”

“I did make new friends,” Frankie said. “Patrick, he’s an actor. I met him on my first day. You’d like him, Nana. He’d want to hear all about your Native friends. And Michael. He’s an artist and he really likes poetry.”

“They sound lovely.”

“Yeah,” Frankie nodded. “We’ve become really good friends. We even wrote and performed a play together. Mom has a DVD of it if you want to see it. At first I thought Patrick was kind of weird but he’s so upbeat all the time it’s hard not to like him. And Michael… Michael hated me at first. He’s mad at me right now actually.” Frankie’s chest tightened as he thought about it. “I don’t really remember what I did.”

“Ah, a drunken dispute?”

“I guess so,” Frankie said. He touched a drop of condensation on his drink.

“Better make him a wonderful Christmas gift.” Frankie’s nana replied. “When your grandpa was alive and kicking, he used to buy me the most expensive pottery after an argument. It always did the trick.”

“Ginny? Uh, there’s a spider in your bathtub! Um, it looks pretty big.” Frankie heard his mother call from the other side of the house.

His nana sighed and got up from the table. She leaned over and kissed Frankie on the forehead. “37 years old and that woman still can’t kill a damn spider.”

Frankie put his hands on the table and stared down. What had he said to Michael that upset him so much? Or was he only moody when he left Frankie’s home because he was sick? Frankie shook his head in confusion. ‘He was happy until I said I didn’t remember anything… Maybe I told him he could have the Bentley?’ Frankie wondered to himself. ‘I suppose I could call Patrick and ask him about that night.’ He pulled out his cell phone. No reception. Of course.

The next morning, Frankie woke up to the feeling of the sun burning holes in his closed eyelids. He pulled his knitted blanket over his face but the sunlight shot right through it. 

Sweat formed on his forehead.

Frankie rolled off his cot onto the floor of his nana’s guest bedroom. The floor was cool and he pressed his cheek to it.

After a couple futile moments of trying to return back to sleep, he gave up and got dressed. Grey jeans that had extra holes in them for ventilation and his thinnest black T shirt.

“Good morning, sunshine! Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Frankie’s nana cried from the kitchen table. She was sitting with Oliver and Elisa, surrounded by various piles of dirt and vegetation, jars and crafts like miniature benches and people.

“Definitely a hot day,” Frankie mumbled. He rubbed his eyes. They seemed to be swelling in protest. “You have air conditioning, right Nana?”

“Oh hon,” she rolled her eyes and picked up a jar. “It’s not blazing out and we have the widows open. You’ll be fine.”

“A shower helps,” His mother said from the doorway of the living room. She was fanning herself and holding a glass of water.

“Is this good, Nana?” Oliver asked. He was arranging little plastic people in a jar full of dirt and moss.

“It’s perfect, Oliver. Now we just gotta screw on the lid nice and tight. Water will form at the top like on a can of Coke and drip down to feed the moss.”

Frankie pulled up a chair to the table. “Whatcha making, guys?”

“A terrarium!” Elisa said. “It’s a self-sustaining environment, Nana said.”

“Oh, whoa,” Frankie blinked at the mess. He had no idea what that meant.

“Do you wanna make a terrarium, Frankie? I’ve got all sorts of miniatures to fill it with. Little houses, schools, fairies. You don’t ever have to water it. It waters itself. And it makes a great Christmas present!”

“Mine’s a fairy garden, Frankie, see?” Elisa proudly displayed her jar.

Oliver piped up as well, “Mine is a city. It’s got lots of people running around.”

Frankie smiled at the twins and turned to his grandmother, “Nana, do you know where I can get cell service? I haven’t gotten presents for my friends back home yet and I need to get ideas.”

“Well,” his nana squinted at one of her cactuses, sitting on the kitchen table. She pinched a needle and broke it off. “There’s the town nearby. It’s about a half hour away. The Native reservation is closer. We were thinking of visiting a bit later. But I don’t think they use cell phones there. I have a landline. It’s over there.” She waved a bracelet-adorned hand to an old fashioned phone screwed into the wall. It had a curly cord attached to it, giving the user all of five feet to wander while talking.

“Ummm,” Frankie stared at the phone. The twins would be all over him if he made a call from it, screeching and begging to talk to Patrick. His nana would listen in too, smiling like she knew something he didn’t.

“Why don’t you borrow the car for a while, kid?” Frankie’s mom walked up to him and handed him the keys to her Ford Focus.

“Thanks, mom.” He gave her a grateful smile.

“Just don’t pick up any chainsaw murders.” She winked at her son.

It wasn’t difficult to find the town. The lonely road leading his grandmother’s house to the town only had two directions and because of the flat land, Frankie saw the approaching houses and gas station long before he arrived.

Frankie parked in front of a school. It was 2 o’clock and the students were just exiting the small building. He turned the A/C down a little and dialed Pat’s number.

“Frankie! How’s the wild west?”

“Hey Pat,” Frankie grinned. He liked visiting his nana but already missed his bedroom and his friends.

“You’ll never guess what Michael gave me for an early Christmas present! I’m not going to tell you though. It’ll be a surprise.” 

“Oh,” Frankie replied, disappointed. “You guys already did Christmas?”

“No, no. He just gave me my gift because…well, if I told you, I’d ruin it. But I didn’t give him anything. I haven’t done my shopping yet.”

“Good,” he smiled. “I was actually calling to get ideas from you. I have no idea what to get Michael and he’s been pissed at me for something-”

“Don’t say anything incriminating, Frankie! Michael is here right now.” 

“What? Here where?”

“In my bedroom,” Patrick answered. “We were going to watch a movie. He brought over something called “The Crow”? I wanted to watch “Rent” but we settled on “Sweeney Todd”. It’s all about compromise, you know. I was just painting his nails when you called. He has very nicely manicured fingernails for having never painted them before. I told him a deep purple would look good with his eyes but of course, he only wanted black.”

Frankie could sense Patrick rolling his eyes. He pictured his friends sprawled out on Patrick’s huge antique bed, painting nails and watching a Tim Burton musical on his flat screen.

A twinge of jealous pricked his stomach, surprising him. Frankie shook his head. It was stupid of him to not expect his friends to hang out without him. Nevada felt like a new planet without Patrick begging excitedly to visit the reservation and Michael here to complain about the heat and draw pictures of scorpions and animal skulls. He imagined the Bentley speeding around in the desert, a cloud of dust following the wheels. 

“Frankie? Are you still there? Tell me about Nevada, I’ve never been. Is it warm there?”

Frankie scoffed, “More like a heat wave in my pants.”

Patrick laughed, “It’s chilly here. Yesterday it was only fifty and raining.”

Frankie could hear Patrick say something to Michael. There was a cough.

“Is Michael still sick?”

“Yeah, a little. I was only sick for a couple days but Michael probably has it worse because you put a soaking wet jacket on him all night…”

‘Oh, right’ Frankie grimaced. He remembered that. He remembered seeing how cold Michael was and thinking the jacket would be a good idea.

“Do you want to talk him? Cause I can-”

Static exploded in Frankie’s ear. He jerked the phone away and looked at it. ‘Call disconnected’, the screen read.

“Ugh,” Frankie shook his head and attempted to redial but he had lost the shaky signal entirely. He put the car back in drive.

Frankie drove on the desolate road, not wanting to return to the little pink house. He needed a couple more minutes to think. The conversation with Patrick replayed in his mind. He thought about the angry look on Michael’s face when he last saw him, how it changed from confusion to sadness to fury.

Only fifteen minutes away from the tiny town and Frankie noticed a glaring white house fifty feet from the road. He drove closer to it and pulled off the road.

As Frankie walked towards the house, he noticed the big black cross scrawled on front of it’s chained door. It was a church. An abandoned, dilapidated church in the middle of the desert.

‘Michael would love this,’ Frankie thought, smiling. His chest was tightening with fear. ‘Patrick would hate it.’

Pushing slightly on the door, Frankie watched as the chains moved, snaking downwards and landing in a heap on the ground. Someone had cut right through them.

Inside the church, there were no pews, only rows of dirty, cobwebbed white benches. The wooden floor had holes where desert sand invaded the space. There was a huge, black cross standing firm and untouched in front of the one-room building.

Frankie walked towards the front of the church. Movement caught his eye and he turned just in time to see a copper-colored snake appear from one of the holes in floor then, just as quickly, disappear down another.

The teenager froze. ‘Time to go,’ he thought. Frankie began backing away from the cross. It seemed like it was glaring him out of the room. Frankie kept expecting the door to slam shut and chain itself closed.

Just as he reached the door and held the edge in his trembling hand, Frankie saw something under the shadow of a bench.

Inching just a bit towards the thing, Frankie looked at the cross with determination. He kneeled down to see what the object was.

Under the bench was the biggest, most disgusting and horrible spider Frankie had ever seen in person. It’s cold eight eyes were milky and it’s legs were curled up, dead.

The spider was about twice the size of a hamster Frankie once owned. Not including the long, pale legs.

Frankie grabbed his stomach and gagged. He felt his bagel breakfast churn.

He stood up, taking a deep breath. The ropes in his chest grew tighter as he realized what he had just done. Frankie had just found the perfect present for Michael.

As Frankie drove back to his nana’s home, he glanced every so often at the dead spider sitting in the passenger seat. Each time, he expected the spider to be gone. He expected it to be sitting up, wearing it’s seatbelt and demanding a new radio station.

Frankie clutched the steering wheel, retching again.

“Just get it in the terrarium.” he repeated aloud. “Just get it into the terrarium and you never have to touch it again.”

The yellow-white eyes glared at him from the passenger side. 

“No offense,” Frankie whispered, feeling faint. He pulled into an empty spot near his grandma’s porch.


	12. Bulletproof Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick Dizco is not homosexual. He's just sexual.

The drive back home seemed to go forever. Frankie finished the two books he’d received from his mother for Christmas, the first being a guide to songwriting, the second was about the history of punk music. As the Owens-Bard family pulled into their empty driveway, Frankie’s eyes had just started to droop. His body had leaned involuntarily over the copy of ‘Fantastic Four’ issue #8 clutched in his hands.

“We’re here!” Frankie’s mom announced as she put the car in park.

Frankie jumped quickly out of the car and stretched. A cold breeze ran through his hair, filling him with renewed spirits. Frankie never could handle the heat for too long.

“No place like home, right kids?” his mom was hunched down, rubbing a jam spot off Oliver’s face. 

“Oh, did Patrick come and get his shiny car back?” Elisa asked. She ran around to where the Bentley normally sat.

“Uh,” Frankie’s heart spotted for three beats. “He must have, I guess.” His head swam with fear. He gripped his chest, desperate to keep calm. The Bentley was gone. It was missing. 300,000 dollars up and disappeared while Frankie was sweating and drinking ice tea in Nevada. Patrick would have called to tell him he was taking it back if that’s what happened.

‘But I didn’t have cell service,’ Frankie reminded himself. ‘Maybe he needed it back and he couldn’t reach me… but I have the keys.’

Mrs. Owens-Bard opened the truck of her Ford and began handing luggage to a paralyzed Frankie. “Honey, I need to do a little grocery shopping. I threw out all the milk and eggs so they wouldn’t go bad while we were gone. Can you watch the kids?” 

“Can’t we come with, mama?” Oliver tugged on her jeans.

Elisa jumped to assist Oliver, “Yeah, pleassse?”

Their mother groaned. “Why would you two want to come shopping with me? It’s gonna be boring.”

“It won’t be boring!” Oliver’s eyes grew wide with pleading, “We had to be in the car all day and we didn’t whine or nothing! We can help buy stuff.”

“’Help buy stuff’?” She raised her eyebrows and turned to Frankie, “Are you buying this?”

Frankie said nothing. He stared at her, his mind rolling with ideas on how to find the Bentley. He would run around town looking for it. He would ask Patrick if his parents installed a tracker. He would ask Michael to sniff it out. He had to do something. His mother was saying something but he couldn’t understand.

“Frankie? Frankie!” Mrs. Owens-Bard snapped her fingers in his face. He blinked. “The twins and I are going to the market. We’ll be back in an hour. You’re free to do what you want after you bring the bags. Got it?”

Frankie swallowed and looked at the luggage near the door. “Okay,” He said in monotone voice. “Bye, guys.”

After waving to the car as it drove off, Frankie ran into the house. He threw the suitcases in the living room and ripped open his bedroom door.

He searched everywhere for the keys to the Bentley but they were nowhere to be seen. Frankie was sure after the beach adventure, he had thrown the keys on top of the kitchen counter.

Defeated, Frankie had nowhere else to turn. He dialed Patrick’s number, praying to a god he didn’t believe in as the other line rang.

“Hi, Frankie, are you back in town?”

“Hello, Patrick.”Frankie squeezed the words from his throat. “Yeah, I am. How are you?”

“I’m pretty good. My parents have been gone since yesterday and I’m not really sure where they are. So Michael and I have been eating our way through my father’s expensive cheeses and wines. My mother gave me a baby grand piano for Christmas and I tried to teach Michael how to play but he’s just hopeless. He gets frustrated too quickly and keep going on about the piano being paid for with vampire money. He just has no patience.”

“Is Michael there now?” Frankie interrupted.

“No. He left around noon. I let him take some of my dad’s Stradavarius cigars because he was going to do some drawings by the cliffs.”

Frankie gulped, “Patrick? Um, did you by any chance come by and take back the Bentley?”

“Nope.”

“No?” Frankie’s vision blurred.

“Nah. Michael has it, remember?”

Frankie froze. He sat down on his bed, feeling the blood rush back into his brain. “Michael has it?”

“Yeah, he’s been driving it all around since you left…He said that you gave him the keys. Do you not remember?”

“No, I, um,” Frankie cleared his throat in irritation. “I remember now. Thanks, Pat. Do you wanna meet at my house for Christmas, part two?”

“Well, see, the presents I ended up buying for you guys are kinda heavy. I was wondering since my parents are gone if you and Michael wanted to meet here?”

“Sure, that’s fine. I’ll, uh, I’ll bring Michael once I find him. Did he mention which cliff he went to?”

Ten minutes later, Frankie was gasping miserably as he peddled his mom’s violet-colored bicycle up a hill.

“God,” Frankie sucked air into his lungs. “By the time I fucking find him, I’m gonna be dead on arrival.”

He biked just under three miles in thirty minutes, ignoring the jeers of passersbys, the yells of ‘don’t you know that’s a girl’s bike?’   
When Frankie found the Bentley at least, he fell off the bike in a heap on the ground. His chest hurt, his forehead was sweaty and Frankie was glad he had left his dad’s hat at home.

“What’s up?” Michael asked. He was leisurely sitting, legs out and crossed, on the hood of the car. Patrick’s father’s cigar was all smoked up, the butt of it placed with care on a torn piece of paper, riddled with ashes. Michael was holding a pencil and a sketchbook. Frankie’s presence barely registered to him. Or at least, that’s what Michael seemed to be conveying.

“Oh, nothing much. I just finished riding this lovely purple bike up the biggest hills in existence. So you know,” Frankie tried to catch his breath, “I’m a bit fatigued.”

“That’s interesting,” Michael said. He looked at the view of trees and buildings and began lightly adding something to his drawing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chewing on his lip, Frankie plodded down in the dirt. Michael had spread his belongings out of the Bentley’s hood, leaving no room for visitors. “How’d you get the keys?’

“They were sitting on the kitchen counter.”

“When you came over with the soup?”

“Yes,” Michael tightened his grip on his pencil. Frankie could sense he was annoyed by the company. “I figured since you don’t seem to care much about the Bentley, you wouldn’t care if I borrowed it.”

“What?” Frankie shook his head. “What does that mean?’

Michael put down his pencil and turned to face him. If looks could kill, Frankie would be six feet under. “You seem pretty conflicted about the Bentley. You’re worried about it getting stolen but you left the keys in plain sight so I figured you just act like you care about it.” Michael’s words grew more venomous with each word. He looked back at his paper and continued drawing. “Maybe you’d be better off with a different vehicle.”

Frankie stared at his friend speechless. It was like Michael was speaking a different language. Finally, he gathered a reply. “Michael, look, I seriously don’t know what I did to upset you so much. You’ve been angry at me for weeks now. I know this isn’t about some stupid car. If you just tell me what I did-”

The teenage looked out into the distance as though he were searching for something. Frankie noticed his eyelashes were so black, he could see them clearly in Michael’s profile; a pouting lip, small nose and long, dark eyelashes. 

Michael pushed his hair away from his face and sighed, “Let’s just drop it, okay Frankie?”

Frankie felt like this was a trick question. “… Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter.”

There was silence as Michael closed his sketchbook and returned his pencil to a pocket in his velvet jacket. 

“If that’s okay with you…” Frankie picked up the bike from the dirt and began wheeling towards the car. “By the way, I made you the best Christmas present.”

“What are you doing?” Michael asked. He got into the driver seat.

“Uh, putting my mom’s bike into the trunk so we can drop it off at my house. Patrick wants to exchange gifts at his mansion while his parents are gone.”

“Yeah, he told me this morning.” Slamming the driver door, Michael started the car. “But you can’t put that thing in the trunk. It’s covered in dirt.”

“I can’t just leave it here, man. It’s my mom’s.”

“So ride it back home and I’ll meet you there.”

“Michael!” Frankie panicked as his friend began backing out of the roadside cliff. “This isn’t funny! It took me half an hour to ride this thing here.”

Michael shook his head and Frankie watched a slow, devious smile appear on his face. 

“I’ll see you in a bit then.”

“You don’t even have a license!” he shrieked.

Michael glanced briefly at him from the Bentley before shrugging casually, rolling the window up and driving away.

“This might just be a waste of time but there’s no one I’d rather waste my time with than all my best friends.” Frankie sarcastically mumbled as he parked the bike back into the   
garage.

Michael waited for him under the cork tree as he retrieved his friends’ gifts. Frankie saw a plain brown box on the passenger seat of the Bentley as he buckled himself in. Michael   
moved it to the floor, satisfied with letting Frankie take back the car. They drove to Patrick’s.

“Frankie!” Patrick was waiting by the huge doors of the mansion.

“Hey,” Frankie grinned. Patrick flung himself on his friend. Normally this would have knocked the wind out of him but Frankie had prepared for this greeting on the way over.

“Notice anything new?” Patrick winked at him and smiled wide. Dimples pinched his cheek and on one side of his lip, a gem stud sparkled.

“Oh, wow,” Frankie examined the piercing closely. It was dainty and worked well with Patrick’s features. “That’s so cool, Pat. I’ve always wanted a piercing.”

Patrick could barely contain himself. “Michael did it for me as my Christmas present!” He grabbed Michael’s arm, pulling him close.

Frankie frowned. “You didn’t go to a professional?”

Michael scoffed. “All you need is the piercing and a needle to do it yourself, Frankie. And many a little bit of guts.”

Patrick shoved his chin in the air, brimming with pride over the ‘guts’ Michael claimed he had. “It didn’t really even hurt.”

Michael smiled at Patrick, “I would never let someone fucking come near me with a needle but Patrick is hardcore. My cousin was over for Christmas Eve mass and she left her lip stud in the bathroom. But he can change it out to a ring or something once it’s healed.”

“You should watch it and make sure it doesn’t get infected.” Frankie said flatly.

“It’s already mostly healed,” Patrick said. “Anyway! We must attend to Christmas business! To the sitting room, gentlemen.”

Patrick led the two boys into a room with a large, extravagant Christmas tree and a cozy-looking off-white couch.

“I had the maids wait to take down the tree for a couple days,” Pat explained as the teens spread out on the couch. “Close your eyes!” he demanded.

Frankie and Michael complied. There was a scuffling sound and Frankie felt Patrick lay something heavy in his hands. He knew immediately what it was and the thought made his   
heart pound harder.

“Now open!”

Frankie opened his eyes and gripped the deep blue, electric Schecter guitar in his hands. There was a big ribbon pressed into the neck, the same shade of blue as the body.

“Patrick…” Frankie whispered but lost the words. He strummed his thumb down the strings carefully, savoring the tight, new sound.

“Why did you tell me to close my eyes?” Michael asked. He was sitting with two boxes on the table in front of him, both were wrapped with Christmas paper and a red bow.

“Because I couldn’t wrap Frankie’s present and I didn’t want to just drop it in front of him like an uncultured peasant.” Patrick replied, crossing his arms. He looked at Frankie nervously, “Do you like it? The man said this was the latest and greatest brand of electric guitars but they only had these awful cherry red ones in stock. So I had him order in one   
that’s a classy blue. I would’ve gotten the purple one but it was for you, not me so…”

“I love it. It’s so… It’s so… I mean, it’s got Seymour Duncan humbucking pickups and it’s so light-weight.” Frankie ran his hand down the neck.

“Can I open my present while Frankie is busying masturbating with an instrument?” Michael asked.

Frankie flushed and set the guitar next to him. “Thanks, Patrick.”

“Michael, open yours!” Pat cried. He sat down next to Frankie as Michael ripped off the wrapping paper.

The first, smaller box was a collection of expensive paints and brushes. Frankie could tell just how expensive the paints were by the look on Michael’s face when he looked at and touched them in the case.

The second box turned out to be an easel, the kind that could be folded up and carried around. It was black.

“I could only find one black, portable easel online so it’s not the best of the best quality-wise.” Patrick said, shrugging.

“Thank you,” Michael said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gifts.

Suddenly, he put the paints and the easel on the table and picked up the box he had carried in from the Bentley. After shoving it into Frankie’s lap, Michael folded his hands in his lap.

“Is this for me?” Frankie asked with a smile.

Michael gave him an irritated look.

Laughing, he took off the top of the box and pulled out the gift. It was a leather jacket, closely resembling the one that had been ruined in the rain. The only difference between   
the two was that this jacket was brand new.

“Michael,” Frankie exhaled slowly. “I can’t accept this. It’s too much. A real leather jacket like this must have cost at least seventy dollars.”

Michael started laughing, flashing his teeth. “It was originally eighty but I got a good deal.”

Frankie saw Patrick bit back a grin. 

Frankie shook his head. He wanted the jacket but he also didn’t want it. He didn’t want to picture Michael spending his lifesaving on a Christmas present for him. Pulling the jacket close, Frankie examined the rivets and seams. It was exactly his size and exactly the right amount of badass. Near the edge of the jacket though, Frankie spotted a small hole that had been sloppily stitched. 

“… Did you steal this?” Frankie’s face broke into a relieved smile.

Michael innocently laced his fingers together. “Now you can go back to being a baby biker boy.”

Frankie felt his emotional crisis wash away as he put on the jacket. The new leather smell was intoxicating.

“Okay!” Frankie clapped his hands together. He had a new guitar and a leather jacket. Life was perfect. “Now, for my gifts all the way from the middle of nowhere. But I didn’t have   
time to wrap them so Pat, close your eyes.”

Patrick bounced up and down happily. He shut his eyes and held out his hands. 

Frankie turned a plastic bag inside out above Patrick’s hands and out tumbling a barrage of jewelry.

Patrick opened his eyes and sucked in a breath. “Are these from the Shoshone tribe?”

“You bet. They really like their silver and turquoise.”

Immediately putting on the two bracelets, one necklace and one ring Frankie had purchased from an elderly Native American woman, Patrick was over the moon.

“I told the lady all about you so she could pick out the jewelry instead of me. She said acting is like story-telling which is highly regarded in Native traditions. The ring comes from   
one of the greatest Shoshone story-tellers to ever live.” Frankie explained. “The woman wouldn’t even haggle with me about the price.”

Patrick breathlessly adjusted the round turquoise ring, set in silver, on his middle finger. “It’s my favorite. You have to take me to visit someday.”

“Okay, Michael. Close your eyes.” Frankie hesitated before pulling out his terrarium. He had decorated the inside of the jar with moss, dirt and tiny gravestones he had made with   
clay. The biggest grave-marker was a cross with Michael’s name on it and in the middle of the terrarium sat his spider friend, gigantic and horrible as ever.

Patrick gasped loudly and slapped a hand on his mouth. He jumped up from the couch.

Michael opened his eyes and smiled, “Cool!”

“Oh my God, what the fuck is that?!” Patrick spat from his position in the corner.

“It’s a female crab spider in a terrarium.” Michael said calmly before Frankie could.

“Yeah, yeah,” Frankie pressed his hands into fists. “I made it. The terrarium, I mean.”

“It’s so wicked.” Michael whispered. He held the jar close to his eyes to study it. “Where did you find the spider? In your grandma’s house?”

“Nah, it was in this creepy abandoned church.” Frankie said, delighted with the fascinated expression on Michael’s face.

“Holy fucking Christ, Frankie!” Patrick began to hyperventilate. He moved his hands around his shirt as though it were covered in live spiders. “What is wrong with you? Why would you touch that thing?”

Frankie grinned and replied, “I saw it and thought of Michael so I took it home.”

Michael smiled at him, not a hint of anger to be seen.

“Did you wash your hands!? Come on, you have to wash your hands right now!” Patrick pressed his arms to his body and backed away even further, almost hitting the tree with his back.

“Oh Patrick, calm down,” Frankie rolled his eyes.

“Michael,” Pat said. His expression changed quickly to concern. “What’s wrong?”

Frankie looked at Michael. He was staring at the terrarium and biting his lip fiercely. He looked at the paints and the easel and swallowed. If Frankie didn’t know Michael better he would think he was going to start crying.

“What’s up?” He put a hand on Michael’s back.

“Nothing,” Michael breathed and shook his head quickly. “It’s just… I don’t know.”

Pat and Frankie exchanged a look. Patrick gathered his courage and sat on the other side of Michael, keeping his legs away from the terrarium.

“My mom hasn’t celebrated Christmas since Danny…” Michael looked up at the ceiling. Frankie recognized it as a common trick to keep tears from falling. His friend’s voice was   
tight with control. “I don’t know,” he repeated.

“Do you guys want to raid the kitchen?” Patrick offered. “There’s German chocolate cake.”

“Sure, I’m starving,” Frankie took his hand off Michael but he still wouldn’t look at him.

Getting up from the couch, Frankie watched as Michael put the terrarium down, looking at it closely one more time, before joining the other two at the door.

“Stop stalling, make a name for yourself! Boy, you better put that pen to paper, charm your way out!” Patrick yelled, throwing a handful of jellybeans at the screen of his TV.

“I don’t get it. Why doesn’t she just sleep with him and get it over with?” Michael mused, shaking his head.

Frankie sat, hunched on the bed with boredom. The colors and fast musical numbers of ‘Moulin Rouge’ spun in his eyes; twisting his head and making it hurt. The movie was only halfway through and he was feeling nauseous. When Patrick suggested the musical, Frankie expected Michael to do his protesting for him. When Michael surprisingly agreed, there was no room for debate.

Finally, he spoke up, “So Patrick, where are your parents anyway? Did either one of them move out yet?”

Patrick rolled his blue eyes to the ceiling, dramatically and fell back on the bed, “I don’t know. Sometimes they leave for other countries and forget to tell me. I’ll bet my mother is staying with the lawyer in Paris and my father is in Germany on business. But it’s just a guess. Neither of them has said anything about moving out. Then again,” Pat’s eyebrows furrowed as he thought. He picked up a jellybean and stared at it, “My dad could be at the country club, playing golf.”

Michael picked out a couple jellybeans from the bowl on Patrick’s lap, carefully choosing just the right colors. “There’s a country club in this town?”

“Mhm,” Patrick sat up. “There’s a tennis court, a golf course, a croquet field and a swimming pool. My dad used to drag me down there for tennis lessons. My mom took me for dancing. Natasha Olmstead broke my pinky toe with her high heels during waltz week, freshmen year. I kind of stopped going after that.”

“Poor Natasha must have felt ditched,” Frankie teased, nudging his friend’s leg.

“Nah,” he shook his head. “The tramp did it on purpose.”

“We should go trash the country club,” Michael said, getting up from the bed. “This movie is boring as fuck. You said there would be murder in it.”

“Excuse you, I said someone would die. I never said they would be murder,” Patrick replied, insulted.

Frankie added his two-cents, “I’ve never been to a country club before.”

“Et tu, Frankie?” Pat feigned a look of betrayal then smiled. “Fine, we can go but only because seeing me with two ratty-looking teenagers would devastate my parent’s reputation. If anyone asks, we’re in a ménage à trois.”

The country club turned out to be very close to the Dizco mansion. In fact, it looked very much like the mansion as well. There was a big black gate where a valet waited to park their Bentley and a chandelier hanging from the entrance, just like at the Dizco’s. This chandelier, however, was less old-fashioned and slightly smaller.

First, the teens hit the croquet court. They were alone on the grass field as they smacked the balls around with their heavy mullets. Only Patrick knew how to play but Michael and   
Frankie were only interested in seeing how hard they could hit the balls. Croquet grew tiring quickly. After accidentally sending a ball splashing into the nearby pond, the teens disappeared from the field.

“Let’s go swimming,” Patrick suggested as he sprinted down the hall.

“We didn’t bring swimsuits!” Frankie called, trying to keep up with the hyper teen.

Suddenly a man in an impressive black suit jumped out from a passing corner. “Hey! How did you kids get in here?” he snapped.

Frankie stopped all at once, weaving forward. Michael skidded on the smooth, carpeted floor to avoid crashing into the man. He managed to stop but fell hard on his rear in the process.

“Shouldn’t you teenagers be in school right now?” the man was snarling like a feral hog. His thick eyebrows so tense with angry, it gave him a unibrow.

“Teenagers?” Michael stood up, rubbed his backside. “I don’t see any teenagers. Teenagers scare the living shit out of me.”

“Besides, it’s Sunday,” Frankie added weakly. He hoped his hands holding onto Michael’s arm would be a reminder to keep his attitude in check.

“Excuse me, sir,” Patrick strolled back to his friends and the man. “Would you mind bringing club member swimming trunks to the pool? We’ve forgotten to bring our own.”

The man scoffed but as he turned to face the Patrick, who was maybe half of the man’s size, his angry expression fell off his face, “You’re Albert Dizco’s son.”

Patrick frowned and crossed his arm over his chest, “It would appear so.”

“I’ll have the swimsuits brought to the pool right away. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.” The man’s eyes were pleading. He looked back at Frankie and Michael. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Patrick shrugged. “Come on,” he waved to the boys and they followed.

Michael was laughing as they strutted down the hallway and threw a door labeled ‘Pool’. “That guy looked at you like you were the antichrist, Patrick.”

Patrick grinned. The overwhelming smell of chloride made Frankie’s eyes tear up. “My dad made a scene here about a year ago after some maid tried to give him Merlot instead of Pinot Noir. I don’t think any of the staff members are quite over it.”

A woman in a short-sleeved red polo came swiftly into the pool room. She dropped three folded, navy blue swimsuits on a table near the boys and dashed away.

“Sweet!” Patrick smiled. He pulled off his shirt. “Michael, do you think the pool water will hurt my lip stud?”

Michael shook his head and looked away as Patrick began pulling down his jeans.

“Patrick,” Frankie felt his face grew flushed. “Aren’t there locker rooms or something around here?”

“Why? So we can undress together in a different room?” Pat put his fingers on the band of his spotted boxers and smiled as he slowly removed them. Frankie turned around. 

“There is nothing embarrassing about the human body, children. If it makes you feel better, Frankie, I won’t look at you when you change.”

Patrick kept his word and turned around while Frankie put on the silk trunks. As soon as he gave the okay, Pat whipped back around and sashayed his way to the pool. He jumped in, splashing water on Frankie’s legs.

“Michael, I’ll turn around for you as well.” Patrick offered from the water.

“Nah,” Michael sat down on a pool chair and leaned back.

“Oh, come on, Michael. Come swim with us. I promise you won’t melt.” Frankie pulled on Michael’s arm. He wiggled from Frankie’s grasp.

“I’d rather not die drowning in some chemical-filled pool in a country club,” Michael said, crossly. “I can’t swim.”

“Seriously?” Patrick wiped water from his eyes.

“Seriously,” Michael put his feet up on the chair.

Frankie smiled at him, “Do you want to learn?”

Michael looked at Frankie, then Patrick and smirked, “Nope.”

“You know how I learned how to swim, Michael?” Frankie said, slowly. “It was at the YMCA when I was six. The instructors pick you up and throw in the pool until you learn how to not drown.”

Hopping to his feet, Michael glared at him, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Maybe I’m hoping you’ll come quietly.”

Michael began backing away from Frankie. 

Patrick was backstroking across the water. “If you drown in the pool at least we could tell your mother you died nobly.”

Frankie lurched towards Michael, grabbing him around his chest. He shrieked in fear then fell silent. Thinking Michael had given up; Frankie was just loosening his grip when a sharp pain erupted on his arm.

“Ah, Jesus!” Frankie released his friend and pressed a hand into the blazing and swelling bite mark on his bare arm.

“That’s what you get!” Michael yelled. He backed away again.

“It was just a joke, man. I wasn’t really going to throw you in the-”

Frankie’s words were cut off as he watched in horror as Michael slipped on the wet porcelain floor. There was a splash and a loud thud as Michael fell backwards into the pool, hitting his head on the bottom.

Patrick immediately dove down and dragged Michael to the surface. Frankie grabbed his soaking friend and wrenched him up. 

Michael coughed up a mouthful of chlorine water and laid his head on Frankie’s chest. “Ow,” he whimpered, raising a hand to the back of his skull. The fall had knocked all of the fight out of him. He leaned passively against Frankie.

Frankie gripped him closely, “Michael, oh shit, oh shit.” He held on to his shoulders to look the shivering teen in his eyes. “Fucking fuck! What year is it? Can you tell me your name? Can you tell how old you are?”

“Um,” Michael took a shaky breath and stared at him, disoriented. “What?”

“Frankie, slow down,” Patrick pulled himself out of the pool and moved Michael’s drenched hair out of his face.”Michael, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Patrick held up three fingers. Michael blinked a few times and guessed, “Three?”

“Oh god,” Frankie squeezed Michael desperately. “What if I gave him a concussion? Is he bleeding?” Frankie gently touched the back of his head, Michael shrunk away from his touch.

“What’s your middle name?” Patrick continued calmly.

“Vittorio.” 

“Really?” Pat raised his eyebrows.

“It’s Italian,” Michael explained slowly freeing himself from Frankie’s death grip. “Ugh, I feel sick. And dizzy.”

“Well, you didn’t pass out so that’s good.” Patrick said. He and Frankie helped Michael to stand. “Just try not to fall asleep for the next couple hours or you could not wake. Drama kids get head injuries all the time from falling off the stage. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Maybe we should go home,” Frankie suggested. He bit his lip. Guilt and worry were seeping in to his every pore. “Do you want me to buy you ice cream or something, Michael?”

Michael’s face grew disgusted, “Do I look like a five year old to you, Frankie? Next time I should break the skin when I bite you.”

“He’s fine, Frankie. You can buy me ice cream,” Patrick said, grinning.

The next day was an easy Monday, the first school day back from winter vacation and hardly any of Frankie’s teachers seemed to be prepared for it. The one teacher who gave out homework that night was the same teacher who never missed an opportunity to dash the dreams of her students- Mrs. Darpin.

As Frankie sat cross-legged on his bed that night, pages and pages of algebraic expressions spread out like a death sentence, he couldn’t focus. Patrick and Michael didn’t come over after school. Patrick wanted to get home to start the mounds of math as soon as possible and Michael was nowhere to be seen after last bell. It wasn’t that unusual.

However sitting near his bedroom window had the horrible disadvantage of being able to hear every word erupting from the Romanci and Alexander home. Ms. Romanci was unyielding in her screams. Hours had gone by and still, the engaged couple fought like caged animals. From what Frankie was trying not to hear, Alexander lost his job on Saturday and can’t afford a wedding dress for Michael’s mother. He couldn’t help but wonder why she would care about such a thing after four marriages.

Frankie grimaced as the shouting and crying invaded his ears. He put down his pencil and rummaged for headphones in his nightstand drawer.

The fragile knocking on Frankie’s window was so small and soft that at first, he dismissed it as wind. But as the sound grew louder, he looked up to see Michael standing outside.

Frankie opened his window. Michael said nothing, only put his hands on the frame and slide into the room, landing on the bed with ease.

“Come here often?” Frankie smiled at his friend and closed the window.

Michael pulled his legs up his chin and cradled them. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, just black socks with holes in the heels. “Are you doing homework?”

“Haha, the hand behind this pencil relives a failure every day.” Frankie said. He shoved the papers to the ground. He could finish the work later.

“I didn’t do that assignment. I’m going to fail anyway.” Michael muttered, looking at the papers on the ground.

“You said that about gym too,” he pointed out. “And all you had to do was put on some sweatpants and stand angrily in the corner to raise your grade.”

Michael tried on a smile but it didn’t fool Frankie. He wasn’t his usual Michaelness.

“So, yeah,” Frankie started. He could feel his conversational skills leaking from his brain. “That sucks about Alexander losing his job, man. But I’m sure he’ll find another one soon.”

Frowning and looking confused, Michael demanded, “What? How would you know about that?”

Silence filled the room, drowning Frankie.

“You can hear them fighting from here?” Michael threw up his hands in frustration. “Fucking awesome.”

The room was quiet again as Michael glared out the window. Even sitting in the safezone of the Owens-Bard house, he looked out to his own, listening to the furious screaming and crashing of objects against walls. Frankie felt compelled to say something but anything he could think of wasn’t right for Michael.

“Um… I like your nails. Patrick did them right?” Frankie said at last, choosing a simple distraction. He reached out and held his friend’s hand to examine the perfect black manicure.

Michael clutched his free hand in a fist and looked at the hand Frankie was holding. “Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “He wanted to paint them purple. Can you believe that?” and finally there was a real smile on his face as he continued. “Freaking Patrick, man. He’s so weird.”

“He is,” Frankie grinned and let go of the hand. “Did you guys talk about me while I was gone? Painting your nails and gossiping?”

“Nah,” Michael shook his head. “You’re too boring and Patrick likes to talk about himself. We mostly watched movies and talked about his love affairs.”

“Oh really? And nothing about your love affairs?”

Michael ignored the comment. “You wouldn’t believe the weird shit Beverly is into. Let’s just say it involves feet and chocolate…”

“You’re right. I don’t want to know.” Frankie laughed, holding his stomach. “What would Patrick know about Beverly Golding’s kinks anyway? Did he read it in her blog or something?”

“Well, I don’t know if you consider what they did as dating but they were ‘together’ for a couple months. Patrick said it was never exclusive.” Michael formed quotation marks around the word ‘together’ with his fingers.

Frankie slapped a hand to his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “Patrick Dizco. We’re talking about Patrick my-stage-name-is-Disco Dizco. The ultra gay Patrick dated Beverly, the girl who may or may not have spray-painted the word ‘FAG’ on his locker?”

“Patrick’s not gay.” Michael raised his eyebrows at him. “I mean, he’s kind of queer but he’s not gay. He’s dated more girls than you, probably. And more guys, I assume.”

Frankie felt realization come over him for a moment, then turn back into confusion. “But why do she and pretty much everyone in school call him a fag?”

“I dunno,” Michael shrugged. “Because he’s a drama geek? Because he’s nicely-dressed and rich? Beverly and Patrick met in drama club. They messed around for a while but stopped after Patrick started getting all the good acting roles and she didn’t. He said she was insecure and talentless but there were rumors that Patrick fooled around with a guy   
Beverly liked.” He leaned against Frankie’s wall, “It’s your basic trivial high school bullshit, basically. Bright lights, they cast a shadow. Beverly isn’t good enough for him anyway.”

“Wow,” Frankie shook his head, “I guess I understand that. Kind of stupid for me to assume Patrick is gay because he’s feminine.”

“Feminine and masculine are idiotic terms created for an idiotic society.” Frankie expected Michael to start into a whole lecture on the subject but he stopped.

“Well…” Frankie took a plunge, knowing he might get punched in the process. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Michael laced his fingers together and looked at the ceiling. “Beverly Golding is hideous. I would never fuck her.”

“I meant like,” he puffed on his thoughts like a cigarette. “Who are you attracted to?”

Michael shot him a deadly look. Frankie had seen that same look on a nature documentary from a crocodile as it dragged an antelope into the depths of a river. He never imagined he would relate so well to an antelope. “I’ve known most of the people in our grade since I was five and they’re all Neanderthals.”

“Oh…” ‘Not really an answer but what was I expecting?’ Frankie thought to himself.

After a moment, Michael threw Frankie a pity bone, “I’ve never done anything with anyone. I haven’t felt the need. Girls can be nice to look at but I wouldn’t want to kiss one and guys…” There was a short pause and Frankie earned himself a glare. “Guys are thick. I’m not afraid to walk this world alone. I don’t need anybody.”

“You’re not alone, Michael,” Frankie smiled wide and shook his friend’s scrawny arm. “You have me and Patrick. Whether you like it or not.”

Michael groaned at his dorky sentiments. 

“You can stay here as long as you want,” Frankie said. He got up from the bed and shuffled around until he under-covered a graphic novel from a pile of jeans. “I just bought the 3rd book of ‘Sandman’ if you want to read it while I finish my homework. Or you can learn how to evaluate expressions with me.”

Sticking out his tongue in an adorably pissed-off way, Michael took the book from him. Frankie curled up next to him, reading glasses back on, math work in his lap.

After a while, Frankie noticed Michael’s eyes beginning to droop. Lying down next to Frankie, he tossed ‘Sandman’ to the ground, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Frankie worked at a snail’s pace, glancing at Michael every few seconds. Just as he was almost finished with the assignment, Michael made a small noise in the back of his throat, something between a whimper and a gasp, and drowsily moved his head to use Frankie’s leg as a pillow. He even shifted his arm to sit on Frankie’s knee.

‘Crap,’ Frankie thought to himself, swallowing and ignoring how sexual the noises sleeping Michael was making sounded. ‘I wonder if he’s having a nightmare.’ He stared at his friend, considering for a long time whether or not to wake him.

He never did. Frankie only watched him, a pit in his stomach reminding him it was creepy to watch someone sleep and a neglected partial hard-on in his pajamas reminding him even louder. Still, Michael slept on his lap, never stirring.

“I wish I was half as invisible as you make me feel,” Frankie whispered to no one. He put his homework on the floor and made himself comfortable next to Michael.


	13. Poise and Rationality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shoe shopping and a very long Catholic wedding.

Frankie was dreaming of pale skin and black fingernails piercing his naked back. He groaned aloud, hovering in a state between dreams and reality. The sun was warming his face that morning but it felt like lips pressed against his own, pretty lips that smirked and sucked on cigarettes. No matter how hard Frankie shoved into him, it was never enough. He only wanted more.

“Ah…” Frankie gasped and his body released him from the torment. Gradually, he opened his eyes, focusing on the ceiling of his room. 

For a couple seconds, Frankie could only lay, not thinking, breathing heavy. He relished the minutes after cumming. He loved being in that spot just between surreal pleasure and everyday tasks. But eventually, the memories of the night before jarred him back. 

Frankie glanced to his side. Michael was gone. Thank God. His window was partially open. Frankie imagined Michael didn’t want to wake him with the loud sound of the window closing fully. ‘How considerate of him,’ he thought but 90% of his brain was terrified of exactly how his passed out body looked when Michael was awake and leaving. What was he saying in his sleep? What was he doing? 

Frankie carefully got to his feet, searched and found jeans and a t-shirt, and headed to the shower. He would have to wash his sheets after school for sure.

“That assignment last night took me an hour and a half to complete. Can you believe it, Frankie? I almost missed the new episode of “Face Off” at eight.” Patrick threw his small backpack on the floor of the cafeteria and plodded down across from him.

“Hour and a half? Shit, Pat, I was still working on it at midnight and never even finished.” Frankie mumbled. He stabbed his limp hot dog with a spork. 

“Oh, well,” Patrick smiled at Frankie with hint of smugness. “Maybe you should have started earlier.”

“I did. Michael’s parents were at each other’s throat and I couldn’t concentrate.” ‘And I sure couldn’t concentrate with him sleeping on my leg either,’ Frankie mentally added.

“Maybe we should team up to study. The final is coming up, you know, and I need to ace it or I’ll end up with a B+…”

Frankie squirmed in his jacket. He wanted to reach for his hat in his backpack and cover his face with it. He wanted to sink down into the linoleum floor until he reached China and could start a new life.

Patrick squinted at Frankie’s uncomfortable face and asked, “What’s wrong? Is it math or something else?”

“I don’t know, man. I just…” Frankie sighed long and hard, “It’s complicated. Talking’s just a waste of breath and living’s just a waste of death.”

“That sounds like something Michael would say,” Patrick pointed out. He popped the top off a bento box and fished out dark brown chopsticks.

Frankie studied his tater tots momentarily, consciously letting go of his worries. “You’re right, Pat,” he grinned bigger than he meant to. “I should write it down for Michael to use in a poem.”

“Speak of the Michael,” Pat said, chewing on a bit of a California roll. He looked over to the doorway of the lunchroom.

Frankie followed his gaze to see their friend walking towards them, clad in his usual all black. Today it was jeans, a plain t-shirt and a large, striped black and grey cardigan looking a bit like it had been fished out of a dumpster. His hair was loose around his face, un-brushed.

“What happened to your shoes?” Patrick asked as Michael sat down next to Frankie. He looked down at Michael’s feet to see black socks and nothing else.

Michael sighed, putting his arms on the table, the sleeves of his cardigan almost entirely covering his fingers. He shook his head, “The murder machine.”

“I’m starting to gather that the murder machine is like a wood chipper. Things fall in and you never see them again. At least, not in the way they used to be.” Frankie said. He slid his plastic tray over to Michael.

Michael’s eyes widen, impressed, “That’s exactly right.”

Frankie grinned. He was only kidding with his friend but it seemed to cheer him up. “So was it Joe or Max?”

“Joe and Max and some other guy. They told me they would break my teeth down my throat if I didn’t give my shoes to them. I told them to bring it the fuck on.”

“And?” Patrick asked, looking a combination of scared for Michael and irritated that his friend was robbed of his only sneakers.

“They brought it the fuck on.” Michael finished glumly. “You guys know the broken stall in the third floor bathroom? You’ll find my shoes adding to the lovely overflowed toilet decorum.”

“But you still have your teeth,” Frankie said. He put his hand lightly on Michael’s shoulder and then, as soon as he realized he was doing it, pulled away.

Michael gave him a weird look. He pulled a box of Kools out from his sweater pocket and held a cigarette between his teeth tightly before remembering where he was and discarding it. “Patrick, um, you don’t have to or anything but I was wondering if…”

Patrick put down his chopsticks and gave Michael full, very hopeful eye contact.

“I was wondering if I could maybe borrow like ten dollars from you. My mom is marrying that idiot drunk in a couple days and if I show up with no shoes on…” he trailed off, eyes darkening as he imagined what his mother would do to him.

“Sure!” Pat cried, too excitedly. “Of course, you’ll need more than ten dollars, Michael. You’ll need money for new everyday shoes and new loafers for formal events like the wedding. We can go to the mall after school and find outfits for you and Frankie. I’m always in need of a new bow tie.”

“Hey, I never said you two morons were invited.” Michael said, defiantly. 

Patrick quieted. His baby blues grew into round, depressed pools. The young actor even added a lip quiver for good measure.

“Alright, fine, fine.” Michael said, giving in quickly. He looked away from Pat’s melancholy expression. Frankie hid his smile with a leather sleeve. He wondered if Patrick ever didn’t get his way.

“But I can’t pay you back if this shit’s going to be expensive,” Michael added in a high-pitched tone. He was chewing on his lip, anxiously.

“You don’t have to pay me back,” Patrick said. He laughed and shook his bangs as though the suggestion were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “It’s not even my money.”

Hours later, Frankie sat in an uncomfortable green and tan food court chair, munching on a piece of hamburger pizza. Michael was across from him. He stared at his plate of Chinese stir-fry as though his very soul had been sucked from his chest.

“I think the shoes kinda suit you. It leaves a statement,” Frankie sucked ice tea from his straw.

Michael’s head shot up. He snarled at Frankie, tucking his moccasin-ed feet even further under his chair.

“What do you want me to do?” Frankie shrugged, carelessly. He broke off a piece of the garlic bread that came with the pizza and dipped it in marinara sauce. “You can’t just wonder around the mall with no shoes on. Just because the teachers didn’t notice at school doesn’t mean a mall cop wouldn’t. And besides, those are the only shoes I have that would even come close to fitting you.”

Pulling his lips back to growl at him, Michael continued to give Frankie the silent treatment. As soon as the trio had stopped at the Owens-Bard home to get temporary shoes for him and Frankie returned with the old moccasin-style slippers, Michael behaved like a brooding dog with a medical cone tied to his neck.

Patrick returned from the Greek restaurant with a heaping plate of salad and feta cheese. “They didn’t have a vegetable gyro but the salad is just as good.”

“Can I borrow your fork really quick, Pat?” Frankie asked.

Pat handed him the plastic fork.

Frankie leaned forward and snatched a piece of chicken from Michael’s tray. He swallowed it quickly and handed the fork back to Patrick.

“Hey!” Michael sneered.

“Looks whose talking to me again,” Frankie smiled and batted his eyes at him.

Michael narrowed his eyes at him and said, very slowly and calculating, “I would steal your food if it weren’t so poorly prepared. And by the way, there’s an eyelash on your pizza.”

Frankie shook his head, annoyed, “No, there’s not. There’s nothing wrong with my food.”

“Oh really?” Michael put his hands under his chin. “I guess it could be an eyebrow hair… or a pubic hair.”

Squeezing his hands into fists, Frankie desperately searched his slice for any remnants of a dark hair.

“Christ, you two argue like an old married couple,” Patrick said. He had already devoured down half the salad. “Hurry up and eat. The mall will get more crowded as the day grows   
old.”

The boys tossed their food into green trashcans, Frankie’s eyelash pizza unfinished and Michael’s stir-fry hardly touched. Patrick could barely be contained long enough to swallow the last leaf of his salad.

“Let’s find your shoes first, Michael.” Pat said, leading the way down the hall. Michael trailed between his two friends, head down as though he’d rather be dead than hanging out at the mall.

The trio walked into the first shoe store they could find. Frankie wrinkled his nose as the heavy smell of leather and rubber filled the air. As soon as they walked in, Michael slipped his moccasins off and wondered around in socks.

“What about these?” Frankie asked, holding up the first plain black sneakers he could find.

Pat shook his head, “Those are knock-offs, Frankie.”

“I can’t tell the difference,” Michael said. Frankie smirked to himself, proud that Michael appeared to be back on his side.

“But other people can,” Patrick said, exasperated. “The art community will not take you seriously in knock-off sneakers. What about these?” He held up a pair of buckled black leather boots. “They’re real leather and really rock and roll, don’t you think?”

Frankie raised his eyebrows at the shoes as Michael tried them on. They did look very good on him. The heel added a bit of height to the short teen and the shiny buckles looked both hardcore and mature.

“They suit you,” he said and added quickly after, “For real, this time.”

Michael’s twisted his mouth to the side as he looked at the boots. He reached for the price tag hanging from the left buckle. “How much are they?”

Patrick lurched for the tag before Michael could read it. He ripped the string off and crumpled the paper in his fist. Smiling innocently, he said, “Guess we won’t know until we buy them.”

The shoes that Michael walked out of the store in turned out to be two hundred and sixty dollars without tax. They were fashion forward, as Patrick explained, and definitely not knock-offs.

Frankie could sense the guilt in Michael for only a little while. The thrill of wearing the high class goth boots seemed to outweigh any bad feeling he had about spending Patrick’s parent’s money. Strolling past a trash barrel, he stopped and tossed Frankie’s moccasins in.

“Dude!” Frankie shrieked. He grabbed the shoes out of the trash cans and fished a crumpled candy wrapper out of them.

“They smell like a wet dog, Frankie, I’m doing you a favor.” Michael stood by his actions. “Besides you said they didn’t even fit you.”

“Yeah, but…” he searched for a reason to keep them.

“Can I have them?” Pat asked.

Frankie looked at the ratty shoes again and handed them to Patrick, “I guess so.”

“Cool,” Pat smiled and threw them back in the trash. “Now we can go to Tip Top Tux and find suits for you two. And I can look at their new bowties.”

“I don’t think my mom will want anyone to be wearing a tux,” Michael said, struggling to keep up with Patrick’s quite pace. “She can’t afford a new dress so she’d probably get pissed at me if I wore something fancier than her. I don’t know if anyone’s even gonna be there besides us.”

“What about your extended family?” Patrick abruptly turned into a small tuxedo store with a petite blonde woman guarding the door.

“My cousins show up sometimes for money. My mom has a ton of siblings but I don’t think they’d recognize her after how many years they’ve been apart, much less send their   
resignations to the bride and the groom.”

“Hmmmm,” Frankie watched Patrick look closely at a row of pricey, flamboyant bow ties, each with a different design. Pat picked up one that looked like it was modeled after a couch from the fifties. “Well, I guess we can still look around. Every young man needs a good suit as my father would say. He would also say this bow tie is a perfect example of the classless, tacky new generation. I think I’m going to get it.” He grinned happily as he held the tie to his neck to show Frankie.

“It’s magnificent,” Frankie smiled and bowed to Patrick. Michael began shuffling around the store, a look of boredom on his face and the blonde woman on his heels.

Although Frankie couldn’t fathom a reason why he would need a suit, Pat convinced him to pick out one regardless. The steely grey suit, maroon button-up dress shirt, and darker matching tie cost Patrick’s parents around two-thousand four-hundred dollars. It fit Frankie nicely, giving him broad shoulders and an air of sophistication as well being overall badass.

Meanwhile it took more than a bit of pleading to get Michael to even glance at a tux. It was only after Frankie informed him that the sooner he cooperated, the sooner the boys could leave, that he chose a black suit, black shirt and a tie the color of fresh blood.

Frankie couldn’t help but flush when Michael tried it on. It looked slightly vampire-attends-funeral-ironically, but that was exactly what Frankie admired about it. 

Patrick bought each of them shiny black loafers and for himself, four bow ties (one couch-patterned, one polka-dotted, one rhinestone-encrusted and one lime green) and a pair of black slacks with accentuating off-white pinstripes. He asked the woman, still following wherever Michael wandered, to hold the items for them. And paid up-front with a gold credit card.

“Why?” Michael whined. “I thought we were leaving.” Frankie could tell he was nearing his breaking point.

“Michael,” Patrick matched his whining tone. “We have like two hours before Frankie has to be home. Don’t you want to look around? We can even go in the stores you like. You can buy a new cardigan without the holes.”

“I like the holes,” Michael frowned and crossed his arms as if to hide the moth-bitten sweater from Pat’s gold-card-carrying view. “There aren’t any stupid stores in this stupid mall that I would like.”

Frankie stepped between his friends, “There’s a book store on the second floor, Michael. I’ll bet Patrick would buy you all the dusty, thick poetry books you can carry if you let him buy his weird clothes.”

“Pardon me if I have a sense of fashion that differs from your basic alternative hair-dyed teenager,” Patrick grumbled. Frankie shot him a look and he quickly forgave the insult. “I’ll buy you any book you desire. Even the overrated Shakespeare.”

Michael scuffed the floor with his new shoes, “Whatever.” Frankie knew Michael was uncomfortable with Pat buying him things. But he did like books. 

“Let’s go to Pretty in Punk. It’s right next to the bookstore.” he began walking up towards the escalator.

The teenagers bought another hundred and fifty dollars worth of clothes in the alternative store. Patrick bought whatever Frankie so much as glanced at. He managed to also buy himself two jackets, a lip stud that looked like a crown and a polo shirt with a bizarre pineapple print.

Michael laughed so hard at the pineapple shirt that Frankie bought himself one, not exactly matching though, as Frankie’s was a darker grey. Even Michael found a couple shirts he liked.

The teenagers spent so much time in the bookstore, they almost made Frankie late. Michael convinced Patrick to buy the complete series of Wonder Woman comics. He also picked out “The Castle of Otranto”, the complete poetical works of Byron, a biography on Oscar Wilde and a book on New Orleans voodoo. Frankie paid for a couple Avengers comics himself when Patrick wasn’t looking.

It was two minutes to six when Frankie pulled the Bentley into his driveway. Patrick had been delivered back home and Michael sat in the passenger seat, feet on the dashboard, holding his Byron book close to his face.

There was a sudden loud slamming noise that made both Frankie and Michael flinch and jerk towards the sound. Michael’s soon-to-be-stepfather had slammed his front door shut in a fury. They watched as he got into his truck and backed out of the Romanci’s driveway with a screech of his tires. He sped away.

“Do you wanna make me and the twins some dinner?” Frankie grinned and elbowed his friend gently. “You owe me. If I didn’t have to be home by six, Patrick would’ve kept us at the mall until it closed.”

Michael turned and looked up at Frankie from his slouching position. His dark eyes glittered in the early evening light. Frankie swallowed hard. 

“I guess so. You guys like pizza right?”

“Yeah,” Frankie opened his car door.

“Good!” Michael got out of the car and shut the door. “Then I’ll show you what pizza is supposed to taste like.”

The evening of Michael’s parents’ wedding was hot with no breeze and no tree branch shade cool enough for Frankie or Michael. They only sat under the cork tree for a few moments before retreating inside.

Frankie sat on the far end of his bed with his back against the wall and his new guitar in his arms.

“I’ve loved everything about you that hurts, so let me see your moves, let me see your moves. Lips pressed close to mine. True blue. But the prince of any failing empire knows that everybody wants, everybody wants to drive on through the night.” he sang softly, strumming quick, sweet chords on the new strings.

He paused and glanced over at his friend. Michael was lying on his back, arms behind his head like a pillow and eyes closed. He had been silent since the song’s start.  
Frankie started to take his guitar off his lab when Michael suddenly opened his eyes and looked at him. “You didn’t finish.”

“Oh,” Frankie felt his cheeks flame. “I thought you fell asleep.”

“I was listening,” Michael said. He closed his eyes again.

Frankie grinned. He continued the song, picking up where he had left off. “Things aren’t the same anymore. Some nights get so bad that I almost pick up the phone. Trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns. I sleep with your old shirts and walk through this house in your shoes. I know it’s strange. It’s a strange way of saying that I know I’m supposed to love you. I know I’m supposed to love you.”

Michael smiled, eyes still shut. Frankie’s finger stumbled over the chords he had played a thousand times. 

“Did you need a ride to the wedding?” he asked, giving up on the song. It wasn’t entirely done yet anyway. “Patrick will be here soon. He wanted a ride so we could go to the reception together afterward.”

“My mom wants me to be home so she’ll drive me. And there’s no reception after. My mom is just making dinner for the new husband.” Michael opened his eyes. “I should go.”

“Oh, okay,” Frankie set his guitar to lean on the wall. “So the wedding’s at six, right? Our Lady of Sorrows on 35th street?”

“Yeah,”

Patrick burst through Frankie’s door. He was wearing his new pinstripe pants and a black vest with a thin silver chain decoration. Doubling up on the eyeliner because of the special occasion, Pat looked a bit like a circus ringleader. “Hey guys. Your mom’s outside talking to my driver, Frankie.”

Michael got off Frankie’s bed and slinked out of the room without a word.

“What’s up with him?” Patrick jumped on the bed. A pile of comic books were knocked to the floor.

Frankie sighed, staring at the pile of comics. “I think he’s upset about the wedding. They fight almost every night.”

“They say communication is key,” Patrick picked at a stitch on Frankie’s blanket. “They’re communicating, right?”

“Loudly communicating.” 

“So there’s some kind of passion in their relationship, even if it’s not the right kind of passion.” Pat said, shrugging. “It’d be worse if they just silently hated each other. Spending every day trapped in a voiceless, loveless prison, like swimming with the sharks until you drown.”

“I guess so…”

“My mom’s moved in with the lawyer.”

Frankie winced, not knowing how to respond. He put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pat. Do you want to talk about it?”

Patrick smiled at the wall behind Frankie’s head. “No. It’s a relief.”

The boys left the Owens-Bard home and got into the Bentley after thirty minutes of Patrick berating Frankie’s outfit choice. “Acid-wash jeans to a wedding, Frankie, really?” As they pulled out of the driveway, Frankie’s mom waved from her position leaning down to talk to Pat’s driver. He waved as well.

Our Lady of Sorrows was a small church on the corner end of a bad neighborhood, sandwiched between a boarded up cigarette shop and a graffiti-painted bar. The building was red-bricked with a silver cross as the steeple and one stained glass window.

As the teens entered, they could see the stained glass reflection pooling down between the empty pews.

Michael was standing off in a corner with Alexander and a priest. The priest seemed to be explaining something to them but Michael’s eyes darted over to Frankie and Patrick. He gave them a grim expression.

“I wonder if anyone else will be here,” Frankie wondered in a hushed tone. The walls echoed. They sat down two rows from the front.

Just as Frankie’s echoed words faded away. The doors swung open, sending a new sound to bounce from wall to wall. The pair glanced back to see an unhappy-looking Mexican couple in their thirties walk in. A small girl in a flowery dress was skipping ahead of them. The wife carried a baby and the man was holding the arm of an elderly woman.

Frankie felt himself staring rudely. The family made their way to the pews on the other side of the teens. The little girl ran over to the priest. 

“I’ll bet that’s Alexander’s mother.” Patrick said, gesturing towards the old woman. Her face was wrinkled with age and a sour face. Her lips were so thin, they were nonexistent.

Frankie nodded and looked back to the front of the building. He had never in his life been inside a Catholic church so he took the time to observe the confession booths built near a life-size statue of Mother Mary and golden bowl of holy water on a stand near the entrance. For some reason, these things seemed unreal to him, so though they were movie props. Frankie felt as though he were in the beginning of a Law and Order episode.

Alexander’s relatives suddenly began chattering to each other in Spanish, not bothering to whisper. The words rang out.

“They’re saying ‘What a beautiful wedding’.” Patrick said to Frankie, quietly translating the conversation. The old woman scoffed and loudly cleared the mucus from her throat. She relied, Pat translated, “‘Oh yes,’ she’s saying. ‘Yes but what a shame the poor groom’s bride is a… whore.’”

Frankie raised his eyebrows. Patrick shoved himself to his feet. He stood and cupped his hands over his mouth so the family could tell he was talking to them. He shouted in Spanish, something quick and angry in their direction.

Frankie could tell the extent of whatever insult Patrick yelled by the look of shock and confusion on their faces. He sat back down, satisfied.

“What did you say to them?” Frankie asked, stifling a grin with his teeth on his lips.

Patrick pointed his chin in the air, dignified, “I wanted to ask them where their manners were and didn’t they know they were in a church but I couldn’t think of how to say that in   
Spanish so I said, ‘Haven’t you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door? It’s much better to face these things with pose and rationality.’”

A burst of laughter from Frankie turned into a low grunting as he slapped a hand over his mouth. An organist who came out of nowhere was beginning to play.

Frankie expected the woman to start some version of the Wedding March on her organ, then Michael’s mother would walk down the aisle, the couple would say their vows and that would be the end of it. Instead, Michael stood off to the side. Alexander stood near the priest. And the priest began a long, drowning speech on the sanctity of marriage.

The service was so long, Frankie’s head drooped. A swift elbow to his ribs by Patrick reminded him to stay awake.

Finally, when even the threat of injury could not keep Frankie from falling asleep, the Wedding March erupted from the organ in flat, depressing notes.

The doors in the back of church opened and the little Mexican girl walked in. She was carrying a basket of plastic flower petals. She marched much faster than the beat of the song, throwing petals into the air. When the girl reached her family, she stopped and scooted into the pew with them.

Michael mother was wearing an extremely outdated long-sleeved silk dress. It was so off-white, it seemed almost dingy. But she was smiling for the first time since Frankie had met her. It was a bright, pretty smile that relaxed her sharp features and warmed her lips. Just like Michael’s smile did.

She wasn’t wearing a veil but she carried a bouquet of wild flowers, most likely picked from the road that morning. 

When Michael’s mother finally reached her fiancé and the priest, Frankie exhaled. He had been holding his breath subconsciously, though he didn’t know what he was expecting to happen.

She faced Alexander. The priest lifted his thin, black book in his spectacled face and began the vows. Michael was chewing his lip, impatiently.

“The rings?” the priest looked expectantly at Michael. He handed him a small, purple box.

“Do you Alexander Hernandez take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, under God and these witnesses, in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty til death do you part?”

Alexander coughed and mumbled his answer so softly even the echoing church didn’t help him be heard. Michael’s mother slid a ring on his finger.  
The priest turned to Michael’s mother. “And do you Anita Romanci take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, under God and these witnesses, in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty til death do you part?”

Ms. Romanci nodded, “I do.” A ring was placed on her finger.

“Then by the power vested in me by the state and our Heavenly Father, I now pronounce you wedded. You may kiss the bride.”

Frankie knew it was immature of him but he still looked away when the now Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez kissed.

Patrick clapped politely. Frankie joined him.

The wedded couple walked down the aisle as the organist played another melancholy tune. Michael almost followed them but the priest stopped him. He pulled him and said something in his ear. Michael gave the man a disgusted face and walked over to his friends.

“Hey,” He plodded backwards on the pew in front of Frankie and Patrick.

“What was the priest guy saying?” Frankie asked.

“Eh,” Michael put his feet up on the cushion of the pew. “Just some bullshit about how I should come to Mass more often and my mortal soul is in danger or something.”

“As if you even have a mortal soul.” Patrick teased. 

Michael grinned, “That’s what I keep trying to tell him.”

“Maybe he wants to exorcize your demons. Or burn you alive with holy water.” suggested Frankie as he got up from the bench.

“If the sun comes up, will it tear the skin right off my bones as razor sharp white teeth rip out my neck?” Michael laid his head on the wooden edge of the pew and yelled out to the priest as he quickly walked by, avoiding eye-contact. “Someone get me to a doctor, someone get me to a nurse! Someone buy me roses and someone burn the church!”

Frankie cracked up, tears rising in his eyes.

“We’ll never let them hurt you, Michael,” Patrick messed up Michael’s nicely combed hair.

“Promise?” he smoothed the black locks behind his ears.

Frankie nodded and smiled. “Promise.”


	14. You’ve Got Me All Fucked Up on Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Frankie can be a real asshole.

“You can make good money, Frankie. Ms. Palmer knows. She used to do it for years back in her hometown, Boston.”

Frankie shook his head, a lopsided, exhausted smile on his lips. “I don’t know, Pat. I don’t think you could really stand still enough to be a living statue. You’d go crazy.”

Patrick gave a sigh of frustration, “It wouldn’t be me standing there, Frankie. Jesus fucking Christ. It would be the statue, my identity as the statue. It wouldn’t be Patrick.”

Frankie grinned and giggled. Michael had been sneaking into his bedroom nearly every night since the wedding two weeks ago. The window was left open for him after the second time. At first Frankie stayed awake all night, paralyzed, as Michael slept soundly. But last night was an exception. Michael didn’t come over and Frankie paced his room for hours, unable to sleep without him there to hog the blanket and accidently kick Frankie in his sleep.

“Frankie, hello?” Patrick snapped his fingers in his friend’s face. “You look like a wreck but you seem to be happy. What drugs have you been taking? Klonopin?”

“Haha! I’m not on drugs, Pat. I’m just kinda tired. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

Patrick rolled his eyes so hard Frankie imagined the crystal blues falling from his face and bouncing off. “Wake yourself up then. Didn’t you want to copy my homework? Darpin will be here any minute.”

Just as Pat shoved his papers toward Frankie, their math teacher swung open the classroom door. “Good morning, class. I trust everyone has their homework from the weekend finished?”

The response from the room of teenagers was mostly groaning. The door opened again.

“Mr. Romanci, I see we’re choosing to be late once again. You never fail to disappoint.” Darpin sat in her desk, barely looking at Michael as he made his way to his desk.

Frankie’s eyes followed him. His dark hair was masking his face in a way that Michael usually reserved for test days. He didn’t greet his friends as he walked past but this wasn’t entirely unusual. He was swimming in his faded black jeans and holey long-sleeved shirt.

“Guess you’ll just have to explain to Ms. Darpin you couldn’t do your work last night because you were busy not doing drugs,” Patrick snickered to himself from behind Frankie.

Ms. Darpin glanced up from her papers as the students in the room gathered their work. She looked down, and then looked up again, this time with a puzzled frown and concern-wrinkled eyes. 

“Happy Monday, everyone,” she suddenly announced, getting up from her desk. “You may copy from your friends’ homework for fifteen minutes. Starting now.”

“Goddamn, Frankie. You lucked out.” Patrick said. The room exploded in chaos and chatter as people raced to fix answers and fill in missing equations.

Frankie fixed his eyes to Ms. Darpin as she sped over to Michael’s desk. She leaned down to his level, put a hand on his back and said something. Michael shook his head. She continued speaking, gesturing towards the door. Michael pushed himself to his feet.

“Damn, that’s some shiner,” a kid named Bobby commented as he trudged past.

Frankie stared helplessly at the shadow of a black eye barely visible through Michael’s hair.

“Ms. Darpin, may I use the restroom?” Frankie asked with his hand in the air.

Darpin folded her arms across a cat-patterned dress. “From the looks of your blank worksheet, Mr. Owens-Bard, I can see that you need these next thirteen minutes and thirty seconds. You may use the restroom in a bit. Mr. Dizco, help your slacking friend.”

Defeated, the two teens quickly copied Patrick’s answer onto Frankie’s homework. Frankie only looked up once to see a male teacher enter the room, calling Ms. Darpin ‘Helena’ and saying something about a student sneaking out of the school. Even more worried, he knew immediately it was Michael.

At last, the math teacher allowed Frankie to leave, saying nothing as he took his backpack with him.

Frankie darted towards the entrance of the school, praying Michael would be exactly where he thought he would be. 

Michael was curled up in the dirt behind the shrubbery; his knees pressed under his chin and his hair a curtain on his face. He held himself tightly with his left arm and a cigarette with his right. 

“Hey!” Frankie didn’t mean to shout but he was shaking with adrenaline. 

Michael flinched at the noise and looked up. The bruise was bad, a sore-looking violet stamp on milky skin. Frankie knew how hard someone has to hit to leave a black eye. He had given and taken them in the past. Studying the mess on his friend’s face made Frankie’s own eyes sting.

“Who did it?”

Michael looked away and sucked on his Kools. “Frankie…”

“Just tell me who fucking did it and I’ll make them wish they hadn’t. I’ll take them to their fucking graves.”

Michael slowly stood, still avoiding Frankie’s intense stare. He wrapped his arms around himself. “It doesn’t matter. Just leave it alone.”

“It does matter, Michael. You matter to me. Nobody fucks with my friends.” Frankie took a step closer to him. “Was it Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dick?”

“It wasn’t them,” Michael shut his eyes and Frankie could feel the pain radiating from the broken blood vessels. “I… It’s not important, okay?”

There was complete silence. Frankie waited.

“My mom was fighting with him… Normally I’d just leave. I’d go to your place. But…” he ran a trembling hand through his hair, revealing a bit more of the injury. “Alexander was so pissed, angrier than I’d ever seen him. He was getting up in my mom’s face, screaming and spitting. I thought he was going to hit her.”

Frankie could feel the apple he had eaten for lunch in his throat. He swallowed and tried to keep a calm expression.

“I got in the middle. I got between them and I shouldn’t have.” Michael said flatly. “He punched me so hard I knocked over a chair on my way to the floor.”

“Michael, you didn’t deserve that…” Frankie whispered. He reached out to him but Michael shrank back.

“It’s just… It’s like… I’m not even mad at him, you know?” shaking his head desperately, Michael’s voice cracked as he continued. “I’m not even mad cause… cause fuck him, right?   
Who the fuck is he? But after he hit me he ran out the door. And my mom… she just looked at me on the floor and told me I mind my business next time. My mom. She didn’t even help me up.” Michael chocked on his words. His eyes watered.

“God, I’m so sorry, Michael.” Frankie wanted to hug him. He wanted to sing to him every day if it would take away his pain. “Sometimes the person that you’d take a bullet for is the one behind the trigger.” He said without thinking.

Michael finally met Frankie’s eyes. He blinked, sending twin trails of tears down his cheeks. A sob wracked through his body. He opened his arms and wrapped them around   
Frankie tightly.

Frankie was surprised but not enough to ignore the embrace. He squeezed Michael into him fiercely. And then, out of nowhere, Michael pulled back and pressed his lips to Frankie’s. Frankie froze. Then melted. His face grew wet with Michael’s crying. His teeth lightly scrapped his friend’s bottom lip. He ignored the knot in his stomach and moved his hand up to tangle it in Michael’s hair.

The heavy door to the school opened and shut. Frankie snapped back to reality and pushed Michael away.

“Oh, uh…” Patrick was standing by the door. “…Sorry?”

“Patrick!” Frankie squeaked. “I can explain.”

“You can explain?” Michael hid his face with his hands. He was crying so hard now he could barely speak. He backed away until he fell against the school’s brick wall.“Explain what,   
you fucking asshole? Why do you like Patrick so fucking much? What am I to you, Frankie? Just your fucking… your fucking toy? I HATE YOU.” Michael shoved Frankie in the same   
way he had been shoved moments ago. And ran.

Frankie and Patrick were left with nothing but stunned silence and Michael’s bag, laying abandoned in the dirt.

“You should go after him.” Patrick finally said.

Frankie balled his fists. “I can explain…” he said again. He was trapped in those three words. But could he explain? He wasn’t sure.

“You should go after Michael, Frankie,” Patrick repeated, this time more forcefully. “He’s really upset and… I’m worried about him.”

“Yeah,” Frankie replied. He began backing away toward the parking lot. “Yeah, I should.”

“Take his bag,” Patrick nodded towards the dusty messenger bag. Frankie picked it up. “He’ll probably be in Death Valley.”

“I know,” he clutched the bag to his chest, wishing it were Michael himself. “Patrick… I need to talk to you… later. I need to talk to you about everything.”

Pat gave Frankie a less than happy smile and walked back into the school.

Frankie realized halfway to Death Valley as he gasped and ran for his life that he should have taken the Bentley. He roughly ripped at the tears that appeared in his eyes and   
blamed the wind.

When the gates of the cemetery rose up on the horizon, Frankie bolted even faster. His chest was burning horribly but he couldn’t slow down, not until he made it through the gates all the way to the mausoleum.

Michael had collapsed with his head against the stone wall of the mausoleum. When he saw Frankie running towards him his hands twisted into fists. “Go away! I fucking hate you!”

“Michael, Michael,” Frankie fought for air. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried but now he could feel his tears tightening his voice box. “Are you okay?”

“NO!” Michael screamed and fresh tears poured from his blood-shot eyes. “No, I’m not okay! I’m not! Is that okay with you, you fucking…” he sobbed uncontrollably. “Why are you   
doing this?” he whimpered, head down. “Why, why?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Frankie’s own tears dripped down. He went to his knees in front of his friend. “Please, I don’t… I don’t know how to fix this.”

“No one loves me.” Michael was whispering into his open hands. “No one… My own mother… You keep playing with me and it’s not… It’s not okay. And it’s not funny.” Tears were falling into his hands.

Frankie slapped his chest with his open palm, from the pain that tore through his body he was expecting his heart to fall into his hand. His uneasy gasping turned to quiet weeping.

“I don’t know… I don’t know what to do. I didn’t mean for any of this happen.”

“Everyone wishes…” Michael was hiccupping and breathing as though his lungs were collapsing. “Everyone wishes that Danny had lived and I had died.”

“That’s not true!” Frankie cried. He threw himself forward and grabbed Michael.

“It is! My mom wants that!” he was hyperventilating now and struggling in Frankie’s hold. “You and Patrick would be better off without me around. I fuck everything up.”

“Michael, it’s going to be okay.”

“No, no! It won’t!” Michael moaned. He gave in to Frankie and buried his head in his collarbone, snaking his arms under the leather jacket. “I’m having a heart attack, Frankie.”

“You’re not,” Frankie assured him and rocked his body slowly. “You’re having a panic attack. It’s going to be okay.”

“Stop… stop saying that. It won’t be okay because I think I love you.”

‘Oh…’ Frankie closed his eyes slowly. ‘Oh.” He knew it before Michael said it aloud. But Frankie couldn’t keep himself from freezing at the sound of the confession.

“I… um.”

Michael lifted his head. His panic attack subsided.

“I don’t know… how I feel. I don’t want to say something wrong…” As soon as the words left Frankie’s lips he wished he could take them back.

Michael ripped away from him, leaving Frankie hollow and cold. He stood up.

“Figure it out!” he spat and added as an afterthought. “This is for what you did at the beach.” Michael used his new boots to kick Frankie between the legs. The pain was like shards of glass in his bloodstream. Frankie groaned out loud.

With Michael gone, Frankie lay down in the grass, holding himself in the crotch. He waited for the agony to leave. When it did, he spread out his body. He stared into the blue sky and let himself cry softly. He wanted to be someone else. He wanted to be someone else and kill the Frankie that still lived.

“Hey.” 

Frankie didn’t know how long he had been crying near the mausoleum when Patrick showed up. It must have been hours.

“Hi,” His brain was pounding. The rest of his body was numb.

“What did you say to Michael?” Pat sat down next to Frankie.

“I didn’t… Patrick, I fucked up. I fucked up so badly.”

“Yeah,” Patrick replied. He patted Frankie’s knee.

Frankie sat up so quickly, the cemetery spun. “Pat, I swear… He just kissed me. He’s really confused and hurt right now. I don’t know what to do.”

“Frankie,” his friend sighed and shook his head. “It’s okay.”

‘It’s going to be okay.’ That’s what Frankie kept telling Michael but hearing it from Patrick now made it seem like an impossible outcome. “What? What do you mean?”

“It’s okay. I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Michael has been giving you puppy eyes since that night at the Bella Vida. I didn’t think you liked guys but after you kissed him at the beach, I knew you loved him back.”

Frankie blinked. Everything went from blurry to sharp. “I kissed Michael at the beach?”

Patrick raised his eyebrows and nodded. “You kissed him. I saw you from where I was laying in the sand. Thank God it was just a kiss too. The way you were looking at Michael, I   
was afraid I’d have to be the adult and find some condoms.”

“I kissed him,” Frankie whispered. It was so unlike him to do something to a friend like that. He deserved the kick. After telling Michael he didn’t remember anything? He must have been crushed.

“I’m not thrilled about this, just so you know.” Patrick folded his arms. “No one likes to be second choice… but Michael and I would have never worked out as a couple. Our star signs are all fucked up. I’ll get over it. But for future note, I am not sharing the title of Best Man with anyone.”

Frankie stared at Pat. “Wait, but… I don’t know if… I mean, do I love Michael?”

Patrick’s eyebrows furrowed. He used his long, blue fingernails to pinch his friend on the arm. 

“Ow!” Frankie yelled. “The fuck!”

“Who are you thinking about right now?”

Shutting his eyes, Frankie could only see Michael. Michael with his face bruised and streaked with tears, sniffling and angry.

Patrick went on, “Do you write songs about him? Are you sad without him around? Do you masturbate to him?”

Frankie’s blood rushed to his cheeks.

“You love him,” Pat finished.

“I love him,” he tasted the phrase on his lips. “I love Michael.”

“Good job, Frankie, you big idiot.” Patrick hugged Frankie, careful not to get tears or snot on his outfit.

Frankie had to wait until after ten that night to see Michael. He couldn’t leave his siblings alone even if the Romanci home was next door. While he waited, Frankie replayed his new phrase over and over in his head. ‘I love him. I love you. I love you, Michael.’  
It was a wonderful and terrifying feeling. He allowed himself to imagine kissing Michael. For real, this time, without the alcohol or the crying. He imagined dating Michael, taking him to the movies and out to dinner. His favorite part though, was thinking about touching Michael whenever he wanted, holding his hand, smoothing his hair. Frankie was bursting happiness.

At 10:17 pm, Frankie’s mother came through the door. Frankie was sitting at the kitchen table. 

“Frankie, are you alright, honey? Your eyes are red.” His mother peered at him in the darkness.

“Yeah, mom, I think it’s just allergies.” Frankie cleared his throat. “Can I walk over to Michael’s house really quick? I just need to ask him something.”

“Sure, just be home by midnight, kiddo.”

Frankie had to use major self restraint to not jump from the table. Instead, he got up casually and walked out the door.

The Hernandez/Romanci door was locked. Frankie expected this. He didn’t know whether to knock and risk someone other than Michael answering (or Michael slamming the door in his face) or walk around the perimeter to find his friend’s bedroom window.  
Instead, Frankie snuck around to the only window he knew to be always open- the bathroom window. Squeezing himself through the entrance in his pajamas, he landed softly on his feet in the bathtub.

The house was silent and dimly lit with only one light in the living room on. Frankie figured Alexander and Anita were out. He carefully glanced into rooms, attempting to find Michael’s. At last, there was a door at the end of the wall that Frankie had a good feeling about. He opened the door slowly and stepped into the darkness.

Frankie flipped on a light switch. Michael’s room looked very much like the room he occupied on 4th and Fremont- bookshelves and boxes full of comics and novels, a cheap-looking dresser with a graveyard-themed terrarium on it, a couple of music and superhero posters and a bed with a Michael-sized lump under the black comforter. 

The main difference between Michael’s old room and his new one was the black easel set up in one corner. Frankie looked briefly at the painting Michael had started with Patrick’s Christmas presents. It was a blood-splattered portrait of two lovers about to kiss.

Frankie stopped in front of Michael’s bed. Looking down at him, Frankie could see Michael was stressed even in sleep. There were tissues on the floor and his jaw was clenched as he slumbered.

“Michael?” Frankie whispered, carefully. As soon as he spoke the name, his nerves kick-started, fluttering around his brain and begging him to leave.

Michael’s fingers twitched as he gripped his blanket. He didn’t open his eyes.

Frankie swallowed and said again, this time without whispering, “Michael?”

Michael opened his eyes and focused on Frankie. He blinked. “What the fuck.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Get out, Frankie.” He didn’t sound angry, more like exhausted and done with the day. Frankie wondered if this boded better or worse for him.

He gathered his courage and began to climb into Michael’s bed. Surprisingly, the other boy moved over, making room for his friend.

Frankie lay down and inhaled deeply. He shut his eyes before grabbing Michael’s hand. “I can’t forget your style or your cynicism. Somehow… it’s like you were the first person to   
listen to everything I said. My smile’s like… it’s like an open wound without you, Michael.” 

He opened his eyes and looked at his friend, “I know I’ve been a total idiot. I didn’t mean to do all that shit. Patrick told me about what I did at the beach… It was fucked up. I didn’t know you liked me or you know, maybe I did and I was just pretending to not know. And I, uh, I just figured after you left today that I might…”

Michael was relentless in his black-eyed stare, pinning Frankie down like a ruthless panther.

“I might… I think I like you… too.”

Michael was pressed lips together, clearly unsatisfied with Frankie poorly executed confession.

Frankie cleared his throat. ‘Time to nut up or shut up.’ He tried it again, “I don’t think I like you, actually. I know I do. I love you, Michael. I know I’m supposed to love you.”

Finally breaking eye-contact with Frankie, Michael looked down at his pillow. When he didn’t appear happy, Frankie could feel panic rushing through his veins.

“What about Patrick?”

“Um, well,” Frankie mumbled. “He’s okay with it, I guess. I mean he told me he knew all along that you and him wouldn’t make a good couple. You guys are just too different to be dating. Something about star signs or whatever…”

“What?” Michael’s arched eyebrows furrowed. Frankie found himself wishing they could skip the conversation and make out already. “What are you talking about?”

“Patrick isn’t mad about you and me. He had a crush on you for a long time before we all started hanging out but I think what he wanted with you was a torrid love affair type deal.   
Not like a long relationship.”

“Patrick liked me? Why? I thought he liked you. I thought you and Patrick had some sort of thing going on.”

Relief flooded Frankie’s body and he felt laughter bubble up in his throat. “Patrick and me? Ha! I’m way too normal to be Patrick’s type. He liked your dark, brooding artist personality. What was it he called you when I met him? A true and suffering artist? But now that he’s friends with you, I think the fascination has passed.”

“Wow.” Michael put his head on his arm. “That’s so weird…”

The two were quiet for a long time. Frankie could hear ticking from an analog clock from somewhere in the room. He didn’t look around to find it.

At last, Frankie decided Michael was waiting for him to say something. “Um, Michael? Can I… kiss you? Is that okay?”

Michael raised his eyebrows at Frankie. He smiled slowly and evilly, rubbing his chin as though he were considering the request. Frankie forced his eyes to be big and begging.  
“Yes, you can,” As Michael agreed, he blushed and broke into a grin.

Frankie was so nervous, he was trembling. He been kissed plenty of girls in the past, both sober and intoxicated but never had he kissed someone he felt so strongly about. 

Amber was the only person Frankie mistook for loving but now even the way he fumbled around her seemed forced and childish.

He leaned forward and Michael pushed his head up from where he was lying. Frankie only closed his eyes at the last minute, savoring the relaxed, pre-kiss look on Michael’s face, eyes shut and lips pouted.

Frankie pressed his lips into Michael’s. His body buzzed. He reached up and gently touched Michael’s burning cheek, guiding his lips to open slightly. Michael tasted like coffee and cigarettes, like everything about his life could be tasted from his mouth and curious tongue. Frankie resisted the urge to deepen the kiss further. He pulled away, grinning at the wide-eyed look on Michael’s face.

“How was that?” Frankie asked in a teasing tone.

Michael quickly attempted to wipe the swooning look on his face. When it seemed that he couldn’t, he threw his face into his pillow.

“Awww, Michael,” Frankie pet his friend’s (boyfriend’s?) hair, utterly delighted with the range of physical contact he could now have with him. “I’m sorry if you didn’t like it. I guess I’m just a bad kisser.”

Michael whipped around with a look of fierce determination. He snatched Frankie’s t-shirt by the collar and pulled him down. Frankie’s mouth crashed into Michael’s again. 

Michael threaded his fingers through Frankie’s blond hair and licked his bottom lip, almost timidly. Frankie stifled his need to grin and opened his mouth, exploring Michael’s soft tongue and rows of sharp teeth.

“Mmmmm,” Michael’s hands moved to Frankie’s leather-bound shoulders and rested there.

Frankie broke away, only after his light-headedness reminded him he needed to breathe.

Michael was looking up at him. His black hair splayed like the night at the beach, Frankie was beginning to remember images and feeling from that night. He gulped, ignoring the throbbing between his legs. He, instead, lay down next to Michael and captured him in his arms.

“So, what now? Are you my, um, boyfriend?”

Michael buried his face in Frankie’s chest. “Yes.”

“Okay…” Frankie pressed his cheek into Michael’s hair. The long, dark strands tickled his skin. “Cool.”

“You’re such a fucking dweeb.”

Frankie smiled. The bed was comfortable and Michael’s body was like a silk pillow in his arms. He could easily fall asleep. However, “I can’t stay for too long. My mom wants me   
home by midnight.”

Michael was quiet. Frankie could tell he was disappointed.

“You can come over my home if you want. You just have to wait a little bit and come through the window.”

There was a happy squeeze around Frankie’s chest.

“Did you want to… talk about your stepdad? About what he did?” 

Silence again.

“Michael,” Frankie’s heart skipped a beat. “I can tell someone if you want. He should be arrested. He shouldn’t be allowed to just hit you like that. That’s not what a real father does.”

“Well, he’s not my fucking father anyway, is he?” Michael growled from under him. “I don’t… want to talk about this right now. If it happens again, you can do whatever you want to fix it.”

‘But what if he hurts you worse next time? What if he kills you before I can protect you?’ Frankie shut his eyes, blocking images of a black and blue Michael and his callous mother telling police he should have just stayed out of it. “Alright. I want you to be safe. I love you.”

“I love you.” Michael’s words were small but final, like he meant them with everything he had. It made Frankie hug him closer.

“You should come over more often. Like, whenever you don’t feel safe, come over. It doesn’t even matter if I’m home or not. I’ll leave the window open. And you can be at my house after school too. I won’t bother you if you’re painting or writing. You can just… be there. With me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Frankie.” his boyfriend mumbled. But Frankie could tell Michael took his words to heart. He knew Michael didn’t think he was being dramatic. He knew 

Michael was scared of the man his mother married.

The couple lay together in bed for an hour. When Frankie knew he couldn’t stay a minute longer, he had to pry Michael’s hands off him. He left the Hernandez house the same way he entered, through the bathroom window and ran back to his abode.

After saying goodnight to his mother, who had waited up for him, and putting a couple dishes in the dishwasher, Frankie ran to his room and locked the door.

Michael squirmed through his window soon after. He cuddled up to his new lover and slept with his head on Frankie’s fast-beating heart.

“Frankie, shuffle these cards and don’t think about anything.” Patrick demanded the next day at the lunch table. 

He dropped a deck of decorated cards in front of Frankie as he sat down. Pat laced his fingers together to watch. His turquoise ring glistering.

“Are these like, fortune telling cards?” Frankie picked up the deck and shuffled like a Black Jack dealer.

“They’re tarot cards and you’re doing it wrong. You need to shuffle them with a clear mind, slowly. And without speaking.”

He grinned and cracked his knuckles to restart, “Okie dokie.”

Michael appeared next to Frankie, breaking his concentration. He slid onto the cafeteria bench.

“Hey,” Frankie put the cards down to squeeze his boyfriend’s hand under the table.

“Ugh, Frankie, you’re hopeless. Michael, shuffle these cards with a clear mind.” Patrick took his tarot cards back, giving Frankie a disgusted look, and gave them to Michael.

“Okay,” he took the cards and began shuffling with his eyes closed.

“So Pat, studying to be a fortune-teller now? I thought you wanted to be a living statue. Or is this between that and singing on Broadway? Are you gonna be looking for the names   
of your lovers on Ouija boards?” Frankie smiled at his friend who put his chin in the air.

“That is so not how spirit boards work, ingrate.” the other teen rolled his eyes but was smiling back. “I ran into this woman downtown who was selling tarot cards and runes. She said I have an open spirit and can read people easier than most.”

“Riiiight. So naturally you bought her cards and her runes.”

“Excuse you, no.” Patrick folded his bare arms. He was wearing the infamous pineapple polo and purple skinny jeans with a purposeless silver chain dangling from the loops. “I bought a deck of cards and a spirit board. For a good price, not that it matters.” 

“You two are breaking my concentration.” Michael seethed as he shuffled the cards a bit faster.

“That’s fine! You can stop. Take three cards from the tops and place them in front of you, facedown.” Pat excitedly said.  
Michael did as he was told.

“These cards, Michael, represent your past, present and future.” Patrick declared, dramatically. “Reveal your past card. The card on your far right.”

Frankie watched as Michael ‘revealed’ the card. The intricately decorated card had a skeleton on it, dancing with a blonde-haired woman.

“Death.” Patrick said. He leaned over to look at the card closer. “Something in your past has recently ended. Could be an actual death but not usually. Probably more like an ordeal or way of thinking.”

“Kay,” Michael said, looking highly unimpressed.

“Don’t mock your reading,” Pat pouted. “Flip over your present card.”  
Michael did so and Patrick clapped his hands together, joyfully. “The knight of wands! Perfect! There’s someone stable and loving in your life presently with a good sense of humor and good morals.”

Frankie winked at Michael, who gave him an eye roll and a stuck-out tongue.

“A reversed queen of cups as your future card?” Pat watched as his friend turned over the last card. “This card represents a vindictive, manipulative female presence. This person is a draining, emotional wreck and will become worse very soon. A reversed queen of cups also is linked with substance abuse and unpredictability.”

“Very interesting, Sorcerer Dizco,” Michael said, sarcastically.  
Patrick gathered his cards and tapped them back together on the edge of the table, “So, knight of wands, ay?” he looked at Frankie with a spark of mischief in his eyes. “The knight of wands is a notoriously good lover.”

Frankie laughed awkwardly and felt his neck heat up. He caught Michael’s smirking expression in the corner of his eye.

“Quick! Pick a card right now, Frankie!” Patrick yelled. He shoved the deck, spread out like a fan under Frankie’s nose. He picked one and placed it down, face up.

“Knight of cups,” Pat’s face beamed with superiority. He shook his head slowly, “Just as I expected.”

“What? What does it mean?” Frankie suddenly felt annoyed with his knight of wands card, announcing everything about him. A deck of playing cards doesn’t mean anything.

“The knight of cups is emotional, sensitive, romantic, and unpredictable.” Patrick was staring at Michael and leaning closer with each word. “He’s artistic and moody and reckless.”

“Huh,” Michael laced his fingers together. “Sounds like you.”

Patrick ignored the comment and put his hands under his chin. “Knight of cups and knight of wands sounds like a royal match to me. Like I said I’ll be the Best Man and I also have experience planning weddings. My second-cousin asked me to oversee her wedding planner. He was a complete dolt. Tried to convince her a buffet would be best instead of catering, can you imagine?”

“Patrick, I don’t think we’re going to be getting married-”

“Don’t interrupt, Frankie.” Pat swallowed a purple grape from his lunch container full of them. “Michael, do you want to marry Frankie?”

Michael leaned an elbow on the table. He examined Frankie for a long while as though he were a watermelon he wasn’t sure whether or not to buy. Michael’s smile turned devilish. “Sure, maybe he’ll be rich someday.”

Frankie scowled. “If that’s what you want why don’t you marry Patrick?”

“Maybe I will,”

“Sorry, Michael,” Pat was putting his tarot cards in his backpack. “I’m not the marrying type.” He got up from the table just as the bell rang.


	15. Just Think Happy Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day and a fight scene.. and a sex scene... and a teddy bear.

It was ten minutes after the final bell when Michael dragged Frankie into the empty boy’s bathroom. 

“We can’t be too late or Patrick will think we’ve eloped,” Frankie reminded him. He allowed Michael to pull his body close. Michael propped himself against the cold wall. “Or someone could come in.”

“I know, Frankfurt. I’d fight them all off just to hold you close and tight” Michael beamed at Frankie, making his knees go a bit shaky.

Frankie wrapped around arms around him and the smaller teen stood on his toes to kiss him. Michael drove his hands into Frankie’s jacket and held on. Frankie was realizing when it came to making out, Michael was a quick learner. He didn’t bother mentally comparing his new boyfriend’s lips to the lips of any past girlfriend. He was here with Michael now and that was all that mattered.

A heavy-set junior with a football jersey and chin stubble walked in the bathroom. He stopped, staring at the couple as they froze in their embrace. His lips curled back in disgust.

“Problem, pig?” Michael snapped, Frankie gripped him a bit tighter to keep him from walking toward the two-hundred pound teen.

“Tsk,” the other boy just shook his head and walked past them. “Whatever, Romanci, whatever.”

Frankie swiftly led his friend out of the bathroom.

“They’ll never take me alive. I do what it takes to survive in this school and I’m still here.” Michael tried to untangle himself out of Frankie’s hold.

“Yeah, right.” Frankie grinned and released him. “You know, ever since I met you and Patrick it’s like everywhere I go, trouble seems to follow. You don’t have to pick a fight with everyone, Michael.”

“Says the guy with scars on his knuckles from Joe Boroughs.”

Frankie glanced at his knuckles, lightly padded with scar tissues that faded more and more with each new month. It wasn’t just Boroughs he had used his fists on.

“Come on, my demolition lover. Patrick is expecting us.” he threw his arm around Michael and turned into the auditorium.

As the pair entered the stage through a door in the back, Frankie was surprised to see the auditorium vacant, minus Patrick, who was sitting at the piano, plucking away on the keys.

“Hey guys,” Pat said in a flat tone, not looking up from the piano. His ringed fingers danced along the notes of some unknown song.

“Where is everyone?” Michael sat down on the stage’s edge.

“It’s spring. There aren’t any plays scheduled until next fall.”

“So the other drama club members only show when there are going to be plays?” Frankie shook his head. “That seems kinda useless. They can still practice acting without rehearsing an official play, right?”

Patrick smiled, sadly. “That’s why I’m here. It’s stupid that we only get a couple plays a year but maybe if we tried a little harder and got people to actually come see us, Miss Jackson would let us schedule more shows.”

Frankie frowned and looked around at the empty seats. “Fair weather actors.”

“Do you guys want to hear a new song I’ve been working on for next fall? It’s not finished yet but I’ve been in a slump so…”

“Sure, Pat. Let’s hear it.” Frankie settled down next to Michael.

“Clouds are marchin' along. Singin' a song, just like they do.” Patrick sang and pressed his melancholy chords. “If the clouds were singin' a song. I'd sing along, wouldn't you too? If you just knew, what they could do? Oh, if you just knew, what would they do?”

The clicking of heels didn’t distract Patrick. He gave Ms. Palmer the same defeated smile he had given Frankie and Michael as she walked onto the stage.  
“And if the birds are just hollow words. Flyin' along, singin' a song. What would they do? If they just knew, what they could do? Oh, if they just knew.”

“I know it's sad that I never gave a damn about the weather. And it never gave a damn about me. I know it's sad that I never gave a damn about the weather. And it never gave a damn about me… No, it never gave a damn about me” Patrick finished.

Frankie swallowed, feeling as though someone had replaced the normally chipper Patrick with a serious, sorrowful robot in a sweater-vest.

“Hey,” Patrick’s dejected face suddenly melted away. “Do you guys want to learn how to waltz?”

Michael laughed, thinking he was kidding.

“I want to learn,” Frankie elbowed Michael.

“Patrick Dizco, my dedicated thespian, I haven’t waltzed since 2005.” Ms. Palmer put his hands on her hips and grinned. “It’s a good thing we have an even number.”

Pat scrambled from his piano bench and hosted himself on the stage. “Since Ms. Palmer and I know how to waltz already, Frankie and I can be partner and Michael can be Ms. Palmer’s partner.”

“What?” Michael squeaked. His pale cheeks blossomed with red. He looked from Patrick, to Frankie, then to Palmer. “I don’t want to learn how to dance…”

“Don’t be standoffish, Michael.” Patrick scolded and grabbed his friend’s arm to help him up. “Amanda’s not going to bit you.” He shoved Michael into the drama teacher.

“Okay, Frankie, hold my hand out like this, and wrap your other arm around my shoulder like this.”

Frankie did as he was told. He actually knew how to waltz already. His father was always waltzing with his mother at gatherings and parties. Sometimes his mom would dance with   
him, always making him take off his shoes beforehand so he didn’t step on her feet. But still, Frankie didn’t know any other way of cheering Patrick up.

“Okay,” Pat situated himself. “Waltzing is basically walking around in a box shape. So lead me to the left and walk in a box shape.”

Walking to his left and leading Patrick around the ‘box’, Frankie looked over at Michael. His boyfriend was struggling not to make eye contact with Amanda Palmer as she lead him around their imaginary box. Frankie chuckled to himself.

“Hey, you’re a natural, Frankie,” Pat said, his cheeriness was beginning to return.

“Where did you get the bruise, Manson? Fighting the system?” Ms. Palmer joked as she attempted to spin Michael.

Michael’s eyes narrowed and Frankie’s gut lurched, praying Palmer wasn’t about to get “It’s none of your fucking business” screamed in her face.

Instead, Michael’s face returned to normal quickly and he mumbled, “I fell down my basement stairs.”

“Oh, okay,” Ms. Palmer relied, looking surprised with the response and unsure of it’s accuracy.

“It’s getting pretty close to six. Do you want a ride home?” Frankie asked. He spun Patrick around.

“Um, no,” Pat shook his bangs. “I want to work on this song. Words are such torturous things, you know.”

“Oh…” Frankie let go of his friend’s hand. “You’re sure?”

“Ow!” Palmer jumped back from Michael, leaning down to rub the top of her foot.

“Yeah, I’ll see you later, maybe” Patrick walked away from Frankie, jumped off the stage and sat back down at the piano.

Frankie drove the Bentley home, holding the steering wheel with one hand. He had attempted to hold Michael’s hand with the other but was denied because of safety concerns- the Bentley’s safety, not Frankie’s.

Patrick’s bittersweet tune still replayed in his mind as he pulled into the Owens-Bard driveway. Frankie couldn’t help but worry if Pat was still upset about Michael and Frankie’s new relationship. He seemed genuinely excited for the two and unfazed by the development, far less fazed than Frankie was.

“I think Patrick’s song is about his parents.” Michael suddenly said.

Frankie removed his seatbelt and looked at him. Michael was looking out at his parent’s home. There were no cars in the driveway. “Really? But he doesn’t seem to care about them that much. He’s always talking shit on them.”

“That’s because they’re shitty people, Frankie. But everyone cares about their parents… even if they don’t care about you.”

Frankie considered this. He sat back in the driver’s seat.

“’I know it’s sad I never gave a damn about the weather and it never gave a damn about me.’” Michael mumbled. Frankie could practically see the poetry analysis going on in his mind. English was always Frankie worst subject. “Patrick is really fucked up over this divorce. But he’s acting like he isn’t.”

“What are we supposed to do? Go talk to him?”

“Nope,” Michael opened the car door and stepped out. “He’ll just act like he’s fine. And he’s a really good actor. We should just wait until he wants to stop acting. Can I come over?”

Frankie grinned, putting Pat aside in his mind. “You’re already over, aren’t you?”

Michael crossed his arms, “Hmph.”

“Yes, my love. You can come over.” Frankie bowed and gestured towards the door.

Rolling his eyes, Michael walked past Frankie and let himself into the Owens-Bard home.

“Frankie! Michael!” Oliver bolted from the living room, Elisa hot on his heels. “Hi!”

“Hey, gremlins. How was school?” Frankie managed to capture the speeding twins in a hug before they squirmed away.

“We learned about rhyming words! Like cat and hat.”

“And bat!” Elisa added. She looked to Frankie then Michael, then back to Frankie. “Frankie, Frankie, is Michael staying over today? Can Michael draw me a paper doll? Katelyn’s mom draws her a paper doll every day.”

“I want a paper soldier!” Oliver cried. “Or a monster, can I have a monster?”

Elisa’s eyes grew wide with jealous. “Just kidding! Can Michael draw me a dragon or, or a zombie?”

“How about a zombie dragon?” Michael asked, pulling out a sketchbook from his messenger bag.

Elisa and Oliver gasped so loudly Frankie was worried they might faint.

Hearing a toilet flush from the other room, Frankie’s mom appeared, looking tired as usual. “What’s up, boys? Where’s Patrick?”

“He’s staying late at school to finish something,” Frankie explained. 

“Oh, well. Good luck tiring these two out without him,” she smiled and put a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “How was school? Learn anything new and exciting?”

“Meh,” Frankie shrugged and smiled. He thought back to kissing Michael in the bathroom and inwardly cringed. He would need to tell his mom eventually. He hated keeping secrets from her.

“Hey,” Trisha’s eyebrows raised and she looked closely at her son’s face. “Is something wrong? Did you get into trouble?”

“No. I, uh, I was just wondering if we have mushrooms cause Michael, um, wanted to make some kind of mushroom burger thing for dinner.”

“Portobello burgers.” Michael said from the living room. “And I already told you, I can get some from my house.”

“Right!” Frankie swallowed. “Never mind.”

“Okay, babe.” Mrs. Owens-Bard picked up her purse from the kitchen table. “I’ll be home at my usual time.” She walked towards the door and turned around just before leaving. 

“Be good.”

Michael drew two realistic-looking zombie dragons and cut them out in record time. He had to rush as the twins were quickly threatening to lose interest. After he handed each a dragon, he left the home, returning moments later with a container of Portobello mushrooms.

Frankie settled himself down in a chair to watch Michael make dinner. The twins flew around the living room, making loud dragon growls and jumping on the couch.

“I love you,” Frankie said, dreamily staring at the boy making burgers.

“Are they allowed to do that?” Michael asked, ignoring the declaration. He was cutting an onion and sniffing as the fumes burned his eyes.

“Do what?” Frankie looked over to the living room just as Oliver hurled himself from the couch to the ground.

“Jump on the couch,” Michael wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“They’ll fuck up the couch springs. Or hurt themselves.” Frankie’s boyfriend gathered his onions pieces and set them in a glass bowl. “My brother used to babysit me all the time. I remember once I was jumping on the couch and he said I was going to hurt myself. I said I wouldn’t and Danny moved toward me like he was gonna smack me. I lost my balance and fell on my face.”

“I wouldn’t smack the twins,” Frankie said.

“He wasn’t going to either. He was making a point.”

“But you thought he was going to and you got hurt.”

“He was making a point. I didn’t jump on the fucking couch after that.”

Frankie paused. This was quickly turning into a fight. “I love you,” he again after pondering the right tension-breaker.

Frankie felt relief as Michael smiled at him, full eye contact and everything, “I love you too, fucking dweeb.”

There was a loud crash and thud from the other room. Silence, and then a desperate, pain-filled sob from Oliver, “FRANKIIIIIE!!”

A panic-ridden Frankie sprinted to the other room as Michael yelled after him, “Looks like someone just learned a lesson!”  
Hours later, after the final battle to get Oliver and Elisa to stay in their room and sleep was won, Michael and Frankie sat down to flip through TV stations.

“Oh look, ‘The Empire Strikes Back’!” Frankie stopped flipping and put down the remote.

“I’ve never seen ‘Star Wars’,” Michael said. He laced his fingers between Frankie’s.

“What?” he shook his head, finding the idea hard to believe.

“My brother liked ‘Star Trek’. He had some weird vendetta against ‘Star Wars’.”

“Well, shit, Michael,” Frankie excitedly turned up the volume. “Prepare to be blown away. This is without a doubt the best ‘Star Wars’ movie yet.”

Michael smiled at Frankie, his eyes gleaming with adoration, “You’re so fucking strange.”

“Me?” Frankie moved closer to his friend. “I’m not the trekkie here.”

Michael’s smile grew even bigger, showing his teeth. He closed the small gap between the two and locked lips with Frankie. 

There was a small sound as the remote fell from Frankie’s hand. He quickly threaded his fingers through Michael’s dark hair, loving the too-hot feeling of his friend’s body heat. Michael opened his mouth, inviting Frankie to taste him. 

When the front door opened, Michael was almost sitting in Frankie’s lap, his hand was slowly traveling up Frankie’s thigh and the movie was too far into the plot to be explained to him.

Frankie pulled away. He scooted to the other end of the couch, leaving his boyfriend, flushed, with messed-up hair. He could hear his mother throw her keys on the counter and open the fridge.

“Ahem,” Michael sat up straight with a knowing smile. He trailed his eyes from Frankie’s face to his crotch. The bulge in his skinny jeans was undeniable.

Frankie squeaked and grabbed a pillow just as his mom walked in.

“Hey, guys,” Trisha yawned as she walked past them.

“Hi, Mrs. Owens-Bard,” Michael replied, gleefully.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she mumbled and disappeared into her bedroom.

Frankie gripped his pillow and gave Michael a sheepish grin.

“I have to go,” Michael got up from the couch.

“What?” he wanted to get up as well but couldn’t, given his crotch situation.

“I need to finish a painting I’ve been working on for art class. It’s due tomorrow.”  
Frankie couldn’t keep the disappointment from invading his face. “Can’t you finish it here?”

“It’s going to take hours.”

“Okay, I guess… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Michael smiled at him and leaned down to kiss his lips. “Bye, Frankie. You can take care of your problem after I leave.” He walked out of the house.

Frankie sat alone in the dark. ‘My problem? What?’ he pondered the meaning of Michael’s words. 

‘Oh, right.’ Glancing down at the pillow between his legs, Frankie was careful not to crush anything important as he limped to his bedroom.

Locking the door, Frankie wiggled out of his jeans. The relief of standing in his non-constricting boxers caused him to sigh audibly. He dove under his covers.  
Frankie closed his eyes and let his right hand slide under his underwear. He grasped himself and pictured the look on Michael’s face when he moved away from him on the couch, breathless and blushing, his hair tangled from Frankie’s hands. He was smirking.

“Uh,” Frankie groaned softly, thinking about how badly he wanted to wipe that smirk off Michael’s face. He imagined sweaty pale skin under him, holding onto his shoulders as   
Frankie thrust. He thought about the noises Michael would make.

Frankie finished in record time. He fell back on his bed, gasping.

From his jean pocket on the floor, his phone vibrated.

“Bleh,” Frankie mumbled. He opened his eyes, annoyed. Grabbing a sock from somewhere in his covers, he cleaned himself off and got up to look at the message.

‘Hey Frankie, can I borrow your glasses tomorrow?’ The text was from Patrick.

Frankie chuckled to himself and texted back, ‘For what? I kinda need them to read things, haha.’

‘For an audition. I can borrow them after school tomorrow and give them back to you Saturday night.’

‘An audition? :D I guess so. I don’t usually need them over the weekend.’

‘Cool! Thank you! Btw v-day is on Mon. Don’t forget to get your lover-boy something. ;DDD’

“V-day?” Frankie asked aloud. He shook his head and walked over to his Marvel villains calendar. Running his finger to Monday’s date, he gulped. ‘Valentine’s Day…. Fuck.’

Frankie spent all of Saturday driving around town in search of a flower shop that sold black roses. He knew Michael would appreciate the simplicity of the gift and the weirdness of the flower being black. The idea hit him as he lay in bed Friday night, staring hopeless at the ceiling.

What Frankie did not expect was the strange look on every flower shop owners’ face when he asked if they sold black roses.

Finally, the third store owner put his hands on the counter and let him know, “Black roses do not exist in nature, my boy. You can dye a white rose black but you can’t grow one.”

“Seriously?” Frankie heart fell. It was so perfect.

The shop keeper nodded, a gold hoop jiggling in his ear. “What does your girlfriend like? Besides black roses? We have daisies, sunflowers, lilies…”

Frankie felt his ear brighten, “Ummm, maybe I’ll just get them a red rose. You have those, right?”

“We’re out, kid. It’s the weekend before Valentine’s Day.”

“Shit,” he mumbled.

“We have purple roses.” The man said, pulling his arms off the table. He walked to a backroom and returned quickly with a violet-colored rose in his hands. The stem was dripping as though he had removed it from a bouquet.

“Is it real?” Frankie asked, immediately knowing the question was stupid.

“Yep.”

“Okay, how much?”

“For a bouquet of a dozen- fifty. For two dozen- seventy-five.” The man held out the flower for Frankie to inspect.

“Holy shi-” he took the rose. The color drained from his face. Why were a bunch of freaking plants so expensive?

“Tell you what, boy. I don’t usually sell by the flower but I’m sensing your desperation.” The flower shop owner strolled over to his register. “I’ll sell you that rose for five bucks. Fifteen if you want three of them and I’ll throw in some bleeding hearts.”

Frankie slapped down his lawn-mowing money. “I’ll take three then.” He didn’t know what bleeding hearts where but they sounded like something Michael would like.

Sunday came and went. Saturday night, Patrick visited for a while, carrying Frankie’s glasses on his head and saying nearly nothing about the secret audition he had performed early that day. “I don’t want to jinx it, Frankie.” He had said while searching the Owens-Bard fridge for coconut milk.

On Monday, Frankie carried his three roses and bleeding hearts carefully in his fist. He ignored the curious glances of female classmates as he walked through the school parking lot. 

Frankie approached the bushes where he first met Michael and squeezed past the vegetation.

Michael was crossed-legged with a cigarette in hand, unlit this time. ‘Maybe he’s waiting for the warning bell so no one will catch him.’ Frankie wondered. His hair was pulled back as he leaned over a drawing of some sort of kitten werewolf hybrid.

“Hey,” Frankie said and when Michael looked up, his voice became embarrassingly quiet. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He sat down next to his boyfriend and held out the flowers.

Michael’s smile was slow and silent as he took the roses in hand. Frankie’s panic erupted in chatter. “I looked everywhere for black roses cause, you know, I thought you might like them. But then someone told me black roses don’t exist so I, uh, got the purple ones. And the guy said he would give me the red flowers for free. They’re called bleeding hearts.   
They kinda look like hearts, right? That’s probably where the name comes from…”

Pulling small bouquet close to his lips, Michael bit his bottom lip and grinned. “You’re fucking…” Frankie’s heart stopped. “…cute.”

Frankie breathed a sigh of relief. He loved the look on Michael’s face as he examined the flowers, gently touching the delicate petals. “I’m glad you like them.”

“I love them. I’m going to preserve them in wax during art.”

“Cool,” Frankie said. He didn’t know what that process involved but it sounded dangerous.

Michael turned away from Frankie. He held his roses in one hand and with the other, opened his messenger bag and removed something. Swirling around, he pressed a teddy bear into Frankie’s hands.

Frankie couldn’t help but smile as he studied the bear. It was an average brown teddy bear, not very big or small. In its paws, however, it held a stuffed guitar with a heart insignia on the body. The bear was also wearing a hat, identical to his father’s old Stetson.

“I made the hat,” Michael said proudly, “With felt and ribbon. I saw the bear a couple days ago and it reminded me of a quieter version of you. Little Frankie.”

Clutching the bear, Frankie started off in a giggle that rapidly turned into laughter. He held his stomach and tried to catch his breath. “I guess I should be lucky Little Frankie can’t drive a Bentley. Otherwise you’d have no need for me.”

Michael flashed his teeth in a wide grin. Frankie leaned over and kissed him.

“Ew, sick!” A high-pitched voice cried from above them. They both looked to see Beverly Golding standing at the top of the stairs, her bracelet adorned hands on her skinny hips. She was with another girl, with a curly afro and sparkling headband.

Bev turned to the girl and said whispered something in her ear. The two girls laughed and walked into the school.

Frankie looked at Michael to see if this interaction pissed him off but to his surprise, Michael was still smiling at his Valentine roses.

Little Frankie started up at him with such a look of happiness, Frankie hugged him to his chest. The warning bell pierced the contented silence.

The day went by fairly quickly. Frankie and Michael stole glances at each other during math. Michael kept his flowers on his desk for everyone to see. When Patrick didn’t show, even as Ms. Darpin handed out a quiz, Frankie whipped out his cell phone to text him.

“Mr. Owens-Bard, surely you don’t expect me to allow cheating during this quiz.” Darpin crowed as she snatched up the phone from Frankie’s hands. “After class, young man, after class you may text to your heart’s desire.”

Frankie grumbled and took out a pencil.

It wasn’t until after French that Frankie was able to pause momentarily while walking to his next class and text Pat. ‘Hey, are you sick? There was a quiz in Darpin’s class.’

He received an answer almost immediately. ‘Mental health day. I don’t feel right.’

Frankie gripped his cell and stared at the response. ‘Are you okay? I can come over after school.’ He pressed send.

“Dude,” A gangly-looking teen with an off-centered nose was standing in front of him in the hall. “Are you gay?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Frankie asked. It was a calm response. But he could felt irritation pricking his skin. The guy’s face alone was enough to annoy him.

“Don said you and Michael were making out in the bathroom last week.”

“Okay,” Frankie put away his phone. “Who the fuck is Don?” A few students paused in their walking to watch the encounter.

“That’s fucking nasty, dude. Romanci does look like a chick but he’s still got a dick. Fucking gay.”

Frankie’s eyes saw red for three seconds. He shut them and stayed composed. “How about you just fucking walk away, man? Cause I’m just dreaming of tearing you apart.”

The boy lifted his lips back to chuckle. He wanted a fight. “Don was saying how it’s only gay if you’re the one taking it during sex. So,” His eyes narrowed and he smiled. “You fuck Michael, right? Michael’s the faggot. You just like fucking faggots.”

Frankie’s knuckles cracked as he curled his hand into a fist. He stepped back for better balance and without warning, drove his fist into the boy’s nose. Pain shot down his arm and a snapping sound came from the kid’s face.

Students gasped and drew closer to see the guy fall to the ground. He grabbed his nose and a fountain of rusty blood ran from his nostrils. “Ahg! Fucking motherfucker!”

“I’ve seen ships go down with more grace than you!” Frankie spat and began walking away.

Frankie didn’t see the kid get back up but he was expecting him to. When he felt a hand reach out and pull him around, Frankie was ready. He shoved the kid back to the ground, easily. Pressing his knees into the boy’s shoulders to hold, Frankie’s fist met his bleeding face again and again. He couldn’t hear the kids gathered around yelling at him to stop. 

He didn’t hear the history teacher curse and barely felt it when strong, angry arms ripped him away from his target.

Frankie went limp after being torn from the boy. He didn’t want to accidently hit a teacher. He let himself be dragged to Miss Jackson’s office.

The car ride home was soundless and deadly. Frankie imagined his mother was building up her fury like a volcano ready to burn and kill. He sat with his bloody knuckles, holding Little Frankie.

“Suspension. Two days suspension.” Her tone made Frankie wince. “What the fuck, Frankie.”

Silence again.

“Two months. That’s how long you are fucking grounded for. Two months, no phone, no friends, no life. You’re lucky,” Trisha whispered. “You’re lucky they didn’t expel your ass right out of school and then what, Frankie? Then what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” Frankie’s voice was horse although he hadn’t been yelling. “I’m sorry, mom.”

“Sorry?” she shook her head and some of the anger was released from her tightened face. “Your baby siblings look up to you, Frankie. I know it’s not fair. I know you shouldn’t have to be an example for them but you are. And I don’t want any of you to be picking fights at school. What am I supposed to tell Elisa and Oliver? That their hero big brother beat the fuck out of some kid in school and now he’s suspended? That the kid has a broken nose and stitches because of you?”

Frankie ran a thumb down the soft fur of his bear. For the first time, he noticed a small hole in the foot of Little Frankie. There was something sticking out of the opening.

“Well?”

‘Oh shit,’ Frankie gulped. “Um, what?”

“Why?” Mrs. Owens-Bard parked the car in the driveway. “What did this kid say to you that was so upsetting, you felt it necessary to rearrange his face?”

“He was just… He was saying shit about Michael, mom. I couldn’t let him say shit about my… friend.” he held the bear close.

Trisha looked at her son, and then the bear he was cradling. She let her breath come out in a hiss between gritted teeth. “One week.”

Frankie blinked. “What?”

“One week, Frankie, but only because I’m the nicest, most forgiving mom on the goddamn planet.”

“Really?” Frankie’s eyes grew wide with the idea. How was he getting off so easily?

“Don’t push it,” his mother spat. “Go inside and clean the house. It better be sparkling by the time I come home with the twins. And I mean, every room. The twins’ included.”

Frankie scrambled inside.

It was 1:33pm when Frankie was dropped home by his mother and 5:47pm when he exhaustedly flopped on his bed, the entire house clean, organized and germless.

Frankie used a pillow to prop up his head. He pulled a rolled up piece of paper from the hole in Little Frankie’s foot. The poem was in Michael’s small, tense handwriting.

I felt I couldn't take, another day inside this place  
From silent dreams we never wake, and in this promise that we'll make  
Starless eyes for heaven's sake, but I hear you anyway  
Well I thought I heard you  
Say I like you, we can get out  
We don't have to stay, stay inside this place

Someday, this day, we kept falling down  
Someday, this day, set the ferris wheel ablaze  
You left my heart an open wound  
And I love you for  
This day, someday we kept falling down  
One day, this day all we had to keep us safe  
And if we never sleep again, it would never end  
Well I thought I heard you say to me  
We'll go so far, far as we can  
And I just can't stay, one day we'll run away

Frankie was smiling so completely, it made his heart sore. He smiled for so long and so deep, he had to scratch himself with his fingernails to wipe the grin off his face as his mother and the twins came bounding through the door.

That night, Frankie lay on his bed, tuning his guitar. Little Frankie watched him from his nightstand. 

“This is how you tune a guitar, Little Frankie. You listen for the name of the note in the sound, see? D,” Frankie sang as he thumbed his D string. “Are you paying attention?”

A soft knocking came from Frankie’s open window.

“Hey,” Michael said softly. His arms were resting on the window sill.

“Hey,” Frankie sat up and kissed him. “Sorry, my mom will freak out if she catches you sleeping over tonight. I’m on lockdown.”

“That’s okay,” he whispered and added after a moment. “What happened? Everyone’s saying you got into a fight.”

“Yeah,” Frankie cleared his throat. “I’m fine though.”

“I wasn’t worried about that.” Michael smiled. In the shadow of the moonlight, he looked slightly skeletal. The darkness crept on his high cheek bones and large eyes. “How long are you suspended for?”

“I’m suspended for two days but grounded for a week. My mom went easy on me…”

Outside Frankie’s bedroom door, there was the shuffling of feet. The two boys hushed and froze. The sound grew louder, then softer as someone walked away.

“Yeah so,” Frankie continued, quieter. “Can you do me a favor?”

Michael nodded.

“Can you call Patrick for me and tell him what happened? I was going to visit him after school today.”

“I already did,” he replied. “I hotwired the Bentley with tools from the art department and drove it to Patrick’s after school.”

Frankie shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or worry about Michael driving once again without a license in a car that belongs to Albert Dizco. “Was he okay?”

Michael frowned and picked at the flaking paint on Frankie’s house. “He was in his pajama’s, watching a Project Runway marathon. He was acting really happy but I knew he wasn’t really happy because he didn’t want me to stay. He said he was working on things and needed to be alone.”

Frankie didn’t know what to say.

“I gotta go,” Michael said and he was gone before Frankie could reply.

The next day was horribly boring. Frankie thought it would be relaxing to stay home and watch TV all day, no teachers, no early rising. But he was wrong. He was totally alone in   
his home with nothing to do but watch reruns of black and white television.

Around 3, there came a knock at his front door. Frankie jumped up, grateful for the excitement, and ran to greet the visitor.

“Is your mom at work?” Michael asked as soon as the door was opened for him.

“Hey Michael,” Frankie grinned.

“Is she home?”

“No, she won’t be back until six. Like always.”

“Good,” Michael pushed past Frankie and headed to his room. Frankie followed, after closing and locking the door.

“Did you go to school today?”

“Yes, I did,” Michael leapt on Frankie’s bed and began taking off his shoes and socks. He snuggled himself, fully clothed under the covers.

“Oh,” Frankie shut his door. He looked at the knob for a minute before locking it. He was already barefoot so he joined Michael under his blanket. He propped himself up with one elbow.

Michael pinched the edge of Frankie’s white t-shirt sleeve between his fingers. He rubbed it absentmindedly and looked up at Frankie. Frankie swallowed hard.

“Did you really punch Jason because he called me a faggot?”

Frankie blinked, caving under the intense stare. “He was asking for it.”

Michael continued messing with Frankie’s sleeve and he felt himself becoming hot under his clothes. “You didn’t have to do that… People say shit about me all the time.”

“I did,” Frankie straightened his back. “I told you, nobody fucks with my friends. Nobody fucks with my boyfriend.”

A rush of pink skin spread over Michael’s cheeks. He let go of Frankie’s sleeve and laid down. Frankie leaned over. He held himself up so he wouldn’t crush the other teen. Frankie licked his lips quickly and pressed them to Michael’s.

Michael responded by grabbing Frankie’s shirt and pulling him closer. Frankie felt Michael licking at his mouth. He opened and their tongues brushed softly. 

Frankie was slipping down on top of Michael so he repositioned himself, one leg next to Michael’s and the other between his legs. Michael gasped in their kiss as Frankie moved, his thigh sliding between Michael’s jeans. He clung to Frankie tighter and roughly ground against him.

Frankie’s face was burning. He broke away from the kiss and moved against Michael in the way he had before, watching his face, and rubbing his thigh into his crotch. Michael was breathing quickly. His eyes were wide and needy with that hint of curiosity Frankie could see in him when they first kissed. 

Frankie could feel that Michael was turned on. He could feel hardness on his thigh. Michael knew Frankie was hard also, as he did the same to him, moving upward and grinding his leg into Frankie’s clothed dick.

Michael reached down and began unbuckling Frankie’s belt. That was when some of the blood rushing down Frankie’s body, turned and rushed back into his brain. He knew this was going too fast.

“Um, Michael?” he said, struggling to catch his breath. He caressed his boyfriend’s hair so he knew he was listening.

Michael instantly stopped unbuckling the belt. His hands darted back as though Frankie’s pants were on fire. “What did I?” 

“Nothing! Nothing.” Frankie chewed on his lips. ‘Oh God, how do I explain this?’ “It’s just… I think we’re going too fast. I think we should slow down because…”

Michael’s eyes were filled with worry. Frankie knew what he wanted to say, ‘I think we should go slowly because you’re a virgin and I don’t want to hurt you.’ But the look on his love’s face was torment.

“Because my mom will be home in two hours and when we… have sex for the first time.” Frankie leaned down to whisper in Michael’s ear. “I want to make sure we have all night.”

“Oh,” Michael’s face turned red again. He looked away, but was smiling.

“We can still do stuff…” Frankie rolled over to lie next to Michael. He put his hand on Michael’s stomach and trailed it down to the edge of his jeans. “If it’s okay with you.”

Michael pressed his lips together and nodded. He wiggled closer to Frankie.

Frankie took a deep breath and put his own throbbing crotch to the back of his mind. He gently slid his hand between Michael’s legs, earning him a catch in Michael’s breathing.   
Slowly, almost tauntingly, he touched his boyfriend. He drove his palm into Michael’s jeans, up and down.

Frankie looked back at Michael’s face. His eyes were closed, black eyelashes overlapping. And his lips were partially open. Frankie kissed him, deeply, distracting him as he unsnapped and unzipped Michael’s pants. The kiss must have been good because as Frankie moved under his boxers and touched his naked body, Michael’s eyes opened. He looked surprised.

“Do you like that?” Frankie whispered, teasingly. He let his hand explore Michael’s aroused dick. 

Michael’s lip quivered. “Mm…hm.” His expression was a mixture of excited and terrified.

Frankie used his other hand to pinch himself hard enough to draw blood. He had to, to keep from ripping Michael’s clothes off and fucking him. He dove down again, capturing Michael’s lips and holding him the same way he would hold himself, alone in his bed. Frankie stroked him, more aggressively and faster.

Michael moaned into Frankie’s mouth. Frankie let Michael kiss him however he wanted. He was focusing purely on what his hand was doing. Michael’s fingernails bit at his shoulders. Frankie retaliated by reaching up with his other hand and pulling at Michael’s hair. 

“Ah, Frankie,” Michael whimpered. He shut his eyes and Frankie studied every jerk and tensed muscle as Michael came. When he was finished, Frankie let his sweaty body fall down. Frankie and Michael lay gasping, desperate for air.

There was silence as Michael recuperated from his first hand job. Then, shakily he rolled onto top of Frankie. “My turn,” he said, hair matted and lips bruised.

“Uh, actually…” Frankie began. He could feel the inside of his own pants, sticky with cum. 

“What?” Michael demanded. He had fully recovered from the orgasm and was now nowhere close to the submissive state he had been in.

Frankie sighed and bit the bullet, “Jerking you off made me cum.”

Michael narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him, “Really?”

“Yeah”

“… Can I see?” 

Frankie blushed and laughed a little. “Do you really not believe me? Sure.” He pulled his pants down enough to show Michael the mess he had made inside his favorite jeans.

“Hmph,” Michael mumbled, “Fine, okay.” He put his head down on Frankie’s chest.

“Maybe next time,” Frankie giggled, holding Michael’s close. “if you’re a little quieter, I’ll be able to contain myself long enough for your turn.”

Michael grumbled and squeezed him. “Quieter. Hmph. I thought I was being quiet.”

Frankie nuzzled his face into his boyfriend’s long hair. “I love you.”

“Shut up.”


	16. Testosterone Boys and Harlequin Girls

None of them were wearing seatbelts. Frankie noticed this as the collection of shadows around the Bentley moved closer. He didn’t know what they were, only that they were chasing the car and the teenagers inside. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. Frankie wasn’t scared because he knew they would never catch them.

“Check it out!” Patrick shouted from the passenger side. He was grinning a smile so wide it made Frankie chuckle.

Ahead of the Bentley was a bridge, half collapsed and alive with flames. 

Frankie looked to Michael. He was sitting with his head leisurely laid on Patrick’s seat. His smile was bright and he pushed back tangled black locks from his face.

Frankie touched the floor of the car with his petal. He stomped on the gas several times.

“Stop burning bridges, drive off of them!” he yelled gleefully. 

Michael and Patrick both laughed. The Bentley sped off the edge of the bridge, falling into total darkness.

Frankie jerked awake. He wasn’t driving the Bentley off a bridge with his friends. He was in his room, twisted up in his bed and on his second day of suspension. As bizarre as his dream was, Frankie thought to himself with a smile, it was pretty rock and roll.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

Frankie propped himself up with his elbows. Michael was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding a piece of paper with his mother’s handwriting on it.

“Michael?” Frankie tried and failed to frown. “You’re supposed to be in school right now. How’d you even get in here? The window?”

Michael shrugged. He was wearing a too-big, short-sleeved black shirt that read, ‘Vices and Virtues’ in scrawling grey letters. Frankie figured it was some obscure band. “Your mom left the front door unlocked. And yeah, I went to school for first period but Patrick wasn’t there again. It’s boring without him.”

Frankie easily frowned this time around, “He’s still out sick?”

Nodding, Michael used both his hands to smooth his hair behind his ears.

“I wonder if he’s okay…” Frankie’s words teetered and he felt a twinge in his belly. If was as though Patrick disappeared off the face of the planet lately. Frankie missed him.

“I was thinking maybe we would call him,” Michael stood up from the bed. “Cause, like, I know he’s fucking depressed about his parents but he’s never gonna get over it and decide that they can fuck off without some encouragement.” His face grew very determined and he crossed his bare arms. “People that ignore their feelings are the ones that blow their brains against the ceiling. And well… I kinda like that kid.”

“Okay, let’s call him.” Frankie replied, staring at his floor. His brain was flooding with images of Patrick alone in his parent’s mansion, surrounded by nothing but expensive, lonely objects, his fingers on the keys of a baby grand piano, echoing off empty walls.

“Where’s your phone?” Michael asked.

Frankie got up and began getting dressed. “Oh shit, I forgot. My mom confiscated it. I can’t have it back until I’m off lockdown.”

“Do you have his number memorized?”

“Yeah,” he nodded as he pulled on his tight jeans, jumping up and down to make them fit. “It’s super easy to remember.”

Michael breathed slowly. He ran a hand through his hand and looked out Frankie’s window. “I guess we can use Alexander’s cell phone… He was drinking when I left for school this morning. Maybe he’s passed out by now.”

Frankie grabbed his hat off it’s lamp shade perch. “If he’s awake, will he be pissed that you’re cutting class?”  
Michael grinned and shook his head. Frankie would clearly see the worry in his eyes. “Come on, let’s go. Patrick’s brains depend on us. Oh!” he suddenly whipped back around. 

“Your mom left this on the fridge.”

Frankie took the piece of paper and read it quickly.

Frankie-  
I left our box of old family photos on the coffee table along with a blank photo album.  
Your job today is to organize those photos and put them neatly and in order in the book.  
I expect this to be done when I come home with the twins.  
Thought you were gonna be on vacation, huh?  
-Love, Mom

He grimaced and folded the note.

“We can do that later.” Michael quipped. He took the note back and tossed it on Frankie’s bed. “I’ll help you.”

The pair walked across Frankie’s lawn to the Hernandez house, Frankie trailed behind Michael, the nervous pressure on his chest growing stronger with every step. He squeezed his hands into tense fists.

Michael opened the unlocked door to his home slowly. He peeked inside and then, opened the door wide enough for Frankie and himself to slide through.

Alexander was draped on his couch like a beast in repose. He was snoring in loud, drunken growls. Seeing Michael’s house in the daytime made Frankie wonder how he managed to walk around in the dark without tripping over one of the many piles of boxes and objects placed in seemingly random locations. The coffee table was decorated with pages of newspaper and bills, cans of beer and a huge, green ashtray. The TV was turned to the fishing channel.

Michael quietly moved to the edge of the table. He rummaged around the newspapers until he recovered a grey flip phone from under the comics section.

Frankie followed him wordless to his bedroom. Michael shut his door and broke the silence. “See? No big deal. Now we can call Patrick.”

He sat on his bed, kicking his shoes off and curling his legs up. Frankie made himself comfortable next to him and looked around Michael’s bedroom. 

Seeing the rest of the Hernandez/Romanci home really put into perspective how neat and organized Michael’s room was. Frankie smiled to himself, wondering if there was something psychological about that. Everything had a place. Even his wax-preserved Valentine roses had a special place on Michael’s dresser, placed with care in a scarlet vase, next to his terrarium.

“Frankie? How do you put this thing on speaker?” Michael’s voice cut through Frankie’s thoughts.

“This button here,” Frankie pressed it and dialed Patrick’s number. The phone rang three times. Frankie was just starting to worry whether or not Pat would pick up a call from an unknown number when he answered.

“Hello?”

The sound of Patrick’s voice made both Frankie and Michael breathe a sigh of relief. 

“Hey Patrick, it’s me and Frankie,” Michael said.

“Yeah,” Frankie added quickly. “Um, Michael said you weren’t in school again.”

“Oh. Yeah. I wasn’t. …Whose number is this? Michael, did you get a phone?”

“It’s my stepdad’s.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Pat,” Frankie shifted on the bed. “Are you okay, man? Cause you don’t usually skip whole days like this. We’re kinda worried, haha.” Frankie added the awkward laugh to lighten   
the sound of his question.

“Do you want us to come over?” Michael asked in a rush. His eyes were narrowed at the phone, as if he was daring Patrick to refuse the offer.

“I don’t…” There was a long sigh on the other end of the line. “I don’t know. I’m okay, guys. I just like, have bad vibes about life right now. I’m just trying to figure some shit out.”

Frankie was practically begging at this point, “Maybe we can help you. Maybe you should talk to us about it.”

“It’s not a big deal or anything. I’m fine, I promise. It’s just… actor’s block or something. I’m sure I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.”

“I think that we should come over.” Michael said firmly and repeated, this time as a declaration. “We’re coming over.”

There was a long pause on Patrick’s line. And finally, a small whisper, “Okay.”

When Michael and Frankie arrived at the Dizco mansion, an older Asian woman answered the door. She said nothing to the boys, just walked off at the sight of them, shaking her head as though they had interrupted something very important.

Michael tried his best to keep up as Frankie sprinted up the stair. He paused at the top, allowing his boyfriend to scramble up to him.

Frankie shoved Patrick’s door open and walked into the huge, impeccably decorated bedroom. Pat was sitting cross-legged, under his royal violet comforter. He was propped up by five pillows, all with the same color purple in their individual designs. On the bed, Patrick had his TV controller and a bowl half filled with brightly wrapped candies.

“Caramel, gentlemen?” Patrick gave his friends a painful, lopsided smile and held out the bowl to them. He was wearing off-white pajamas.

“Hey,” Frankie said attentively. He and Michael walked to the bed and climbed on. “How are you?”

Patrick lost his smile and lowered the bowl. “Losing the feeling of feeling unique.”

“Oh,” Michael whispered. 

Frankie took a candy and rolled it between his fingers. “Where are your parents?”

Pat rubbed his eyes. His hair was unspiked and unstraightened. It flopped lazily over Patrick’s face, covering his eyebrows and the top of his ears. “I haven’t been downstairs in a   
while. Maybe my dad is down there. Maybe he’s in Hong Kong, who the fuck knows.”

The room quieted. Frankie noticed for the first time that Patrick’s TV was on. ‘Westside Story’ was on mute.

“Aren’t you supposed to be grounded, Frankie?” Patrick asked. His tone was sour.

“Yeah,” Frankie said, giving him eye contact. “I’m supposed to be home but Michael said you weren’t in school today and… we were worried. I’ll probably get busted but I mean, we couldn’t leave you here all alone.”

Patrick’s face froze. He suddenly covered his face with his hands and choked on a sob. “You didn’t have to…” his voice cracked. “…do that… for me.”

“Yeah, we did.” Michael said. “You’re not okay. It’s okay to be not okay sometimes.” He took the remote from Patrick and shut off the TV. He scooted close to Pat’s side. Frankie did the same, putting his hand on his friend’s back.

“I just,” Patrick struggled to find the words. His hands melted away from his face and pooled in his lap. “I know I’m not supposed to care. Cause they don’t care about me so why should I give a shit about them, right?”

Frankie could feel the stifled tears radiating off Patrick. He could feel the exhausting effort he was putting into not crying. He rubbed Pat’s back, hoping he would let go and cry. 

It worked so fast, Frankie knew Pat only needed the invitation.

Patrick collapsed into himself leaving only trembling sobs and his own arms wrapped around his fragile body.

Michael was watching him, his lip torn into with teeth. He looked utterly confused. ‘He probably thought Patrick would curse and drink and threw things for a while instead of cry.’   
Frankie thought to himself. It’s what Michael would do.

“I haven’t seen my mother in fucking weeks. And it’s not like I want to her.” Patrick gasped between tears. “But it’s so… fucked up. Like all she needed was one excuse to never see her own son again. She didn’t divorce me. She should still have to fucking see me whether she likes me or not.”

“Fucking bitch,” Michael said. He was trying to be comforting in the only way he knew.

“Yeah,” Patrick’s looked up at Michael. Frankie raised his eyebrows in surprise. “She is a fucking bitch.”

“But I guess…” Pat continued softly. He wiped at the tears on his face. “I guess I’ve been worried about what kind of person that makes me. You know? What kind of person…” he tightened his hands in fists and shut his eyes. “am I? I’m half of both of those soulless fucking monsters. What if I’m incapable of loving anybody like they are? What if all I can ever care about is myself?”

“Patrick,” Frankie shook his head. His lungs were burning as they absorbed his friend’s words.

“I’m serious, guys.” More tears rolled down Pat’s face. He sniffled. “I know it sounds stupid. I’ve messed around with people. But I’ve never been in love with anyone. Even when I wanted you, Michael,” he quickly looked at his hands to avoid Michael’s gaze. “I didn’t want to get to know you or anything. I just wanted to do things to you. It never even crossed my mind.” Patrick swallowed hard. “I’m… selfish. I’m just like them.”

“No, you not,” Michael said softly. He looked at Frankie and then back at Pat. “You’re just… promiscuous.”  
Patrick snorted in irritation.

“Pat, you’re only fourteen. You have your whole life to fall in love,” Frankie squeezed his arm. “You know how I know you’re capable of loving someone?”

“How?” Pat stared back at him, miserably.

“Because you love your friends,” Frankie replied. “And you love acting. All you need to love is passion. And you’re passionate about everything you do.”

Patrick took a deep breath and thought about this.

“It’s true, Patrick,” Michael patted his arm. “You’ve been fucking miserable for a while but you didn’t want to tell us because you didn’t want us to worry. You cared more about how we felt than yourself. You’re not selfish. You’re not doomed to end up like your parents. If that were true, I’m even more fucked than you.”

Pat gave a half cough half laugh. “Maybe you’re right…”

“We are,” Michael said, proudly.

A smile slowly appeared on Patrick’s face. He breathed and wiped the tears from his face. “Thanks, guys, you’re the best friends a promiscuous actor could ask for.”

Frankie laughed and let himself be crushed into Michael as Patrick wrapped his arms around the both of them. 

“Oh and by the way,” Pat continued. “I’m not fourteen, I’m fifteen. My birthday was the day after Christmas.”

“What, really?” Frankie was shocked.

“Yeah, Frankie,” Patrick looked at him sternly.”I told you I’m a Capricorn.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Cause you were wasted.” Michael supplied the answer. “I turned fifteen in November.”

“I turned sixteen on October 18th.” Frankie said, carefully. He was still attempting to recall the drunken memory of Patrick telling him his birthday.

“I knew it,” Pat said. His much-missed dimpled grin returned to his face. “A Libra and a Scorpio. Good luck with that, gentlemen. Oh!” he cried out of nowhere. “That’s one more thing I need to talk to you two about…”

Patrick crawled past Michael and Frankie, knocking the air out of Frankie’s chest with his elbow and kneeing Michael in the thigh.

“I, uh,” Pat jumped off the edge of the bed. “I sent in an audition tape for this school. Waverly, actually.”

“Waverly in New York? The Fine Arts school?” Michael looked truly impressed.

“Yeah,” he picked up a torn open envelope off the floor. “I got in.”

“Seriously? That’s awesome!” Frankie wiggled off the bed and ran over to his friend.

“Patrick, that school is so hard to get into. Your audition must have been fucking perfect.” Michael said with a hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Oh, it was,” Pat smiled smugly. Frankie noticed Patrick notice Michael’s envy. “But,” he held up the envelope in his hands. “I don’t want to go,” he dramatically ripped the paper in half and let the pieces fall to the ground.

“Why not?” Michael stared at the torn paper.

Frankie followed Michael’s stare. “Are you sure, Pat? This is a crazy good opportunity.”

“I’m sure,” Pat said. He shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “I would miss my friends.”

Frankie’s grin spread across his face like butter. He looked to Michael who was giving a slow smile.

“Oh fuck,” Frankie’s mind decided to kick into high gear and remember. “I have to go home. My mom wants to do organize an entire freaking photo album before she gets home.”

“I wanna come! I have to see what little baby Frankie looked like,” Patrick excitedly began undressing out of his pajamas. Frankie shut his eyes.

“Goddamn,” Patrick squinted at the photo, hours after changing into light pink shirt and grey jeans and riding with Frankie and Michael to the Owens-Bard home. He whistled softly, “Your father was smoking hot.”

Michael looked up from his pile of Colorado vacation photos. “Let me see!” He leaned over to study the wedding photo.

“Can we focus, please?” Frankie begged. “My mom will be home in less than two hours. 

The box of pictures his mother left on the coffee table seemed increasing stuffed. There were stacks and stacks of picture in no order at all, some rubber-banded together, some left at the bottom of the box, forgotten about for years. The task was clearly impossible. Frankie hoped, at the very least, his mother would allow him to eat dinner before she took him out to the woods to shoot him.

Michael shook his head slowly, “Frankie is better looking than him.”

Frankie froze, his hand lingering on a school photo of Elisa. He could feel his ego puff and a grin cracked across his worried expression.

“Michael,” Patrick sighed and rolled his eyes. “You’re biased. Look at his jawline. So manly. And those eyes.”

Michael appeared offended at the accusation. Frankie considered it and decided if he really believed Frankie’s father was more attractive then he was, Michael would have no trouble telling him.

“Frankie has the same green eyes, Patrick.” Michael said, frowning. “And the same blond hair. But…” he picked up a picture of Frankie’s mother and stared at his boyfriend, critically. “Frankie has his mother’s cheekbone and lips.” Michael smiled and a bit of redness pinched his pale face. “Frankie’s much more handsome.”

Watching Michael gave Frankie his own flushed face. He broke eye contact and tried, once again, to concentrate on the chore.

“Fine, whatever.” Pat moved on from the photo. “Frankie junior can be as handsome as he wants but his Frankie senior is still hot.”

“Was,” Frankie joked. But when he looked up, Patrick was staring down, guiltily. He shook his head and stayed silent. No one ever understood his dead father jokes except his   
mom.

Michael cleared his throat and moved to stand on his knees. “Frankie, what’s the method you’re using right now for the timeline?”

“Uh…” his voice trailed off as if to ask ‘Method, what’s a method?’.

“I was going picture by picture,” Patrick offered. He gestured to four pictures lined in a row.

Michael slowly blinked at them. “Okay, well, maybe we could do this faster if we grouped them by ages. Like everything before Frankie was born in one pile, then everything when he’s a baby, then when he’s a toddler. That sort of thing. And we can organize the smaller group one by one into the book.”

Frankie flashed back to Michael’s bedroom with his alphabetized comics and water color pencils sorted by color. He trusted his judgment.

The photo album team switched tactics and soon, Frankie could physically see the progress. The heap of pictures turned into smaller, more manageable groups and he could go through them quickly. An hour and a half went by and the progress was cut short. Frankie had flipped to the last page of the photo album.

“Guess your mom’s gonna have to buy another book for the rest,” Patrick said looking at the forty or so photos left out. Most were photos of the twins and a couple unfortunate-looking ones of Frankie during his middle school years.

“Guess so,” Frankie got up, stretching his back. His left leg was tingling from sitting on the floor for hours. “Thanks for covering for me, guys. My mom’s gonna love this.”

Just as Michael and Patrick got to their feet, the sound of jingly keys was heard from outside the front door.

“Crap!” Frankie squeaked. He grabbed his friends by their arms and dragged them to his room. He shut his door.

“Should we go out the-” Michael was cut off by Frankie as he pulled open his closet door and shouted, “There’s no time!” 

He pushed back of the teens into his messy closet. Thankfully, his friends were both small and could fit. Frankie shut the door before Michael could protest.

He jumped on his bed and grabbed the Watchmen graphic novel from his floor just in time. His mother opened his bedroom door.

“Hey, kiddo,” Trisha joyfully exclaimed.

“Oh hey,” Frankie sat up. “You’re home early.”

“My boss let me go.” She explained. “I saw your work on the photo album.” Her smile was wide. “I didn’t expect you to get that far. It must have taken hours.”

“Yeah, well,” Frankie shrugged, easily. “It wasn’t like I had anything else to occupy my time. I didn’t have my phone or laptop or anything.”

Mrs. Owens-Bard sighed, a smile still on her face. She sat down on the bed next Frankie. “Oh hon… you know I’m supposed to be the big bad mom but… well, maybe we can cut your grounding short a couple days. It’s difficult to stay mad at a face that cute.” Frankie’s mom reached out and pinched his cheek.

Frankie flushed deeply. He could hear a quiet Patrick giggle from the closet.

“I can’t wait to take these damn heels off and sit down with our new family photo album.” Trisha stood and began collecting dirty clothes strewn about the floor. 

Frankie carefully got up. His heart was beating quicker. “Let’s go look now. I found a bunch of cool pictures of you and Dad from your wedding. The dress you’re wearing totally hides the baby bump too.”

His mother laughed, “One second, babe.” 

She opened Frankie’s closet and Patrick tumbled out, Michael falling on top of him.

“Just as I expected,” Frankie’s mom never lost her grin. She leaned down to help Michael off Patrick. Frankie couldn’t help but notice how Michael flinched, uncertainty in his eyes, as though Trisha was leaning down to hit him.

“He cooks, he cleans and now he organizes photo albums,” she rubbed Michael’s arms affectionately. “Frankie, watch your step or I’ll ask Mrs. Romanci to switch me teenagers.”

“And you, Patrick,” Frankie’s mother continued. She helped Pat to his feet. “I’ve never had a single babysitter better at wearing out my twins than you, Mr. Dizco. I’m hoping you both will stick around tonight to help me with the kids. If it’s alright with your parents.” She added.

Frankie would never know if it was alright with Pat’s and Michael’s parents for them to stay over the Owens-Bard home. Neither of them asked. But Frankie had a feeling the boys would not be missed from their homes that night.

After a large meal of pasta carbonara, Frankie’s mother volunteered him to wash dishes while Patrick and the twins practiced performing Noh Japanese theatre in the living room. Patrick was banging rhythmically on an old pot with a wooden spoon, yelling out instructions over the noise. As Frankie rinsed each dish, his smile couldn’t be wiped from his face if he tried. The sound of Michael’s laughter buzzed delightfully in his ears.

Frankie’s mom stood, leaning on the counter with a mug of coffee in her hands. She watched her son, not offering to help once.

“Frankie.”

“Yeah?” he looked over at his mother. Her eyes were crinkled as though she were puzzled.

“Was Michael involved in the fight the other day? He has a bruise on his face.”

Frankie paused, unsure of how to respond. He knew his mother didn’t really think Michael was involved. The black eye on his face was nearly healed; it was a greenish crescent moon. “No, uh, he got that somewhere else.”

Trisha was burning holes in his shoulder. Frankie could feel it.

“Do I need to step in? Do I need to speak to the principal about this?”

Patrick’s drumming picked up pace. The twins could be heard stomping their feet in response. Frankie washed the last plate of food and situated it in the dishwasher. ‘She thinks I fought that guy because he was the one who punched Michael.’ he pondered this and replied, turning around to face his mom. “No, he doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal… I’ll tell you if it happens again, mom.”

Putting her mug down, Trisha walked over to her son. “Frankie, promise me you’ll talk to me next time. You can’t win every conflict with your fists.”

A twinge of guilt twisted in Frankie’s gut. He pressed his lips together and asked, “Are you still mad at me for the fight? Are you pissed about my friends being here even though you grounded me? Cause I have a good reason-”

His mother interrupted with a swat to his shoulder. “I’ll quote your father and say, ‘Next time I’m making your bed a grave and throwing dirt on your sheets.’ But no, I’m not still angry about the fight. You had your reasons even if they sucked. And as far as finding your friends in your closet…” she teetered off. Her eyes sparkled. “Honey, I have a clean house and an organized memory book so I can’t be mad.”

“Hey! I actually cleaned the house by myself.” Frankie defensively crossed his arms.

“Haha! Sure, you did, sweetie.” Trisha shook her head, amused and walked away. She tousled Michael’s hair, freeing locks from his pony tail as they passed each other.

“Hey,” Michael slide up to Frankie, pinning his arms down in an embrace. “Patrick wants to know if you want to go to Monroeville Park.”

Frankie let his upper arms remain captured. He moved his hands to rest on Michael’s lower back. “He wants to go now? The sun is going down.”

His boyfriend nodded and rested his head on Frankie’s collarbone. “One of his drama club frienemies texted him about a meteor shower happening tonight and Patrick says the only way to see it properly is to go where there are no streetlights.”

Frankie grinned. “Don’t you think it’ll be dangerous?”

“I think we’ll drive all the way out there and Patrick will be too scared to get out of the car.”

“Really?” he touched his lips to Michael’s head, smelling his shampoo and the cigarette smoke that clung to his hair. “Pat’s not scared of the dark. He’s not scared of anything.”

Michael pulled back and grinned at him. “He’s scared of spiders…”

The sun was setting over Monroeville as Frankie parked his Bentley. Patrick spent the ride chatting incessantly ear off about Elisa and Oliver’s potential on the stage. 

“I mean, really Frankie. You should be encouraging them to hone their energy. Oliver is a very graceful dancer and Elisa has more emotional range than anyone in drama club. She can already project her voice.”

“Projecting?” Frankie giggled at the thought. “All this time I thought she was yelling.”

“No,” Patrick sat back, irritated. “Yelling is yelling. To project you must speak using your diaphragm to throw your words across a stage. There’s a difference.” Frankie could hear   
Pat mumble something about ‘uncultured peasants’. 

Frankie reached up to adjust his rearview mirror. He caught a glimpse of Michael laying in the backseat, his eyes closed. Frankie couldn’t tell whether he was sleeping or meditating. However when he pulled his keys from the ignition, Michael opened his eyes and sat up.

“Patrick, aren’t you worried about wood spiders? Most spiders are nocturnal so Monroeville is probably crawling with them right now.”

Patrick paused, his hand on the button of his seatbelt. “I don’t have arachnophobia.” 

Michael shook his head, his smile knowing and devious. “Oh yeah? What about the terrarium incident? You freaked out over the crab spider and it wasn’t even alive.”

Giving Frankie a sickened look as the memory returned, Pat replied, “I wasn’t scared of it. I was utterly disgusted that Frankie would touch something dead and riddled with disease. And bring it into my house without informing me.”

“Oh,” Michael frowned, looking disappointed. 

Patrick leapt from the car and shut the door, quickly. Frankie turned around to grin at Michael, “Guess we’re watching a meteor shower after all.”

Monroeville was a fairly dense forest so Frankie, Patrick and Michael stuck to the nature walk paths. The sound of crickets and leaves crunching under sneakers and boots was all the teens could hear. The rising moon gave them some light but most came from Patrick’s phone, set to flashlight mode. He led the group.

“The meteor shower should start at midnight… I’m told there’s a clearing in the middle of Monroeville with a bonfire around set up and log to sit on.” Pat said. He ducked a looming branch.

“You’ve never been inside Monroeville Park before?” Michael asked from behind Frankie.

“I haven’t either,” Frankie mumbled. The surrounding darkness and occasional glowing set of animal eyes was beginning to make him nervous. He swatted at an insect, crawling along his arm.

Patrick stomped on, calling over his shoulder to Michael, “Nope. I haven’t. But all the upperclassmen go on and on about it. This is prime real-estate for getting fucked up and pregnant, Frankie. The police don’t bother raiding high school parties in the middle of nowhere.”

“That’s because the police are smart enough not to go into dangerous woods in the dead of night where no one can hear you scream for help.” Frankie heard Michael grumble.  
Patrick stopped in his tracks. Frankie couldn’t halt fast enough, he crashed into his friend and Michael bumped into him from behind.

“Oh shit,” Pat sighed. “There are two paths.”

“The clearing is to the left,” Michael piped up from the darkness.

“Are you sure?”

“No, Patrick,” Michael said sarcastically. “I’m just fucking with you because it’s my dream in life to be lost in the middle of a godforsaken forest at night with you losers.”

“There’s no need for your bad attitude, Michael Romanci.” Patrick responded in a sing-song voice. He started down the path to the left with renewed vigor.

Within ten minutes, the small group came upon the clearing. Frankie breathed in relief. The looming trees were making him increasingly paranoid.

The clearing was large enough for a makeshift bonfire, piles of burned sticks and ash left behind from others, and four logs surrounding it in the shape of a square. The moon was high in the sky now, giving light to the area.

“Should we light a fire?” Michael asked.

Frankie shook his head, “We don’t have water to put it out after.”

“Well,” Michael sat down on one of the logs and the others followed suit. “This is incredibly boring. We don’t even have booze. How long do we have to be here?”

“You know, Michael, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re the one who’s scared of the woods.” Patrick said, smirking. He leaned forward as he spoke.

Frankie watched as Michael’s expression changed. He narrowed his eyes and his lips turned down with the insult. Then he smiled. And a familiar spark of mischief flickered in his dark eyes.

“If I were afraid, I’d have good reason.” he announced. “Everyone in town knows this place is fucking haunted.”

Frankie rolled his eyes to himself.

“No, it’s not.” Pat scoffed.

Michael smoothed his pant legs and left his bait, “You don’t believe me? Whatever, I don’t care.”

There was silence. Frankie checked his phone, still an hour to go before the meteor shower. His curiosity was overwhelming. He didn’t believe Monroeville was haunted, but the story Michael would tell them, he knew, would be entertaining at the least.

Opening his mouth to speak, Patrick cut him off, “If everyone in town knows it’s haunted, then why haven’t I heard of this rumor? I think I have a slightly better social life than you.”  
Michael raised his eyebrows, “That’s true. But not a lot of kids nowadays know about what happened here. Nobody wants to talk about it. My brother told me the story after my dad told him. He may have been a drunken asshole but he wouldn’t lie about something like this. His family has lived in this town for forever.”

“Alright,” Frankie grinned with excitement. He crossed his legs. “Let’s hear the story.”

Patrick had a ‘hmph’ sound and tried to look uninterested.

Michael put his elbows on his knees. He threaded his fingers together under his chin. His pale face glowed eerily. His eyes were wide and black. There was not a more qualified ghost story-teller in all of California. “During World War II, there were two brothers, twins actually, that lived in this city.”

“How would your dad know about brothers that lived during World War II?” Patrick spoke up.

“Clearly, his parents told him about him, Patrick. Jesus Christ, you fucking know-it-all,” Michael growled back.

Frankie sat up a bit, “Calm down, guys. Don’t fight.”

“Anyway,” Michael continued after taking a breath. “The twins were named Pete and Gerard. They were super close, basically best friends, and both were pursuing musical careers until one day, when they were nineteen; they were drafted into the war.”

Frankie and Patrick sat, barely breathing. Somewhere in the woods, an owl hooted.

“They were there during D-Day, when the US stormed Omaha beach. The twins were musicians, not fighters, so it’s a miracle Gerard made it through the war with his life. Pete, however, died in Normandy and Gerard had to watch. My brother said he was shot through the stomach and bled out in Gerard’s arms but I guess no one really knows for sure.”   
Michael glanced around quickly as though he had heard a noise. “As you can imagine Gerard was torn up about his brother. He came home and wrote a song about him. After that though, he started to lose it. He didn’t want to see anyone or do anything so he bought a cabin in Monroeville. The cabin’s been gone for a while now. Years go by and all Gerard ever does is wander the forest, singing the song he wrote for his dead brother and friend.” He shut his eyes and in a soft, haunting voice sang, “At the end of the world, or the last thing I see. You are never coming home, never coming home.”

Patrick audibly swallowed. “Nice song.” he said, a hint of fear in his tone. Frankie couldn’t ignore the goose bumps on his own arms.

“So Gerard starts to freak out the locals with his singing, right? Everyone knows him because at this time, the town is even smaller than it is now. The police don’t want to but they’re forced to go to Gerard’s cabin and involuntarily commit him to a mental hospital. But when they get there? No Gerard. He’s gone.” Michael stared at his friends, unblinking. Frankie had drops of sweat forming on the back of his neck. “They didn’t find him until three weeks later. A couple with their new born baby were picnicking when suddenly… Gerard’s corpse fell from a tree.”

Patrick scooted closer to Frankie. “What happened to him?” he squeaked.

“Gerard had hung himself from a tree so tall, no one saw him hanging there until his body was so decayed… his head rotted away from his body and he fell from the noose. He landed right on their sandwich, maggots pouring from his open neck and mouth. His eyes were completely gone.”

“Sick!” Frankie laughed.

“I imagine they didn’t bother saving the potato salad,” Michael said, a gleam of amusement on his lips.

“That doesn’t mean this forest is haunted.” Patrick countered.

“It does,” Michael calmly replied. “For years and years after, even still today, people have reported coming to Monroeville and hearing a strange sound. The sound of someone singing a very sad song. That,” he pointed a finger at Pat, “is why people don’t come here at night anymore. And that is why the park closes at 8. If you walk around in the darkness and listen closely, you can hear Gerard singing to his brother. ‘At the end of the world, or the last thing I see. You are never coming home, never coming.’ Sometimes, when the set is setting, you can look out and see the silhouette of a man hanging from the trees and you can see dark spots on the ground, where Gerard’s tears have fallen as he wanders.”

“That’s not scary,” Pat whispered. “It’s just sad.”

“I never said the story was scary,” Michael shook his head. “Ghosts are just dead people. They have emotions too.”

“Wow,” Frankie said softly.

A hush fell over the teens, each listening for the sound of sweet, echoing music. 

Michael cocked his head, his face now dead serious, “I can hear him.”

There was sound of Patrick gripping the bark of his log. “I think I can too.”

Frankie closed his eyes. As the wind danced through the trees, a humming sound, almost like singing, reached his ears. He opened his eyes, his heart racing.

“I need to pee.” Michael’s voice cut the tension. “Let’s go home.”

“Dude, just piss in the forest,” Frankie said.

“Seriously?” his boyfriend’s lips curled in disgust. “I’m not an animal.”

“The meteor shower is in fifteen minutes.” Patrick was staring at the ground. “We came all this way…”

“Alright, whatever,” Michael got up. “But if my dick gets bit off by some creature, I’m taking both of yours as a replacement.” He disappeared into the forest.

“Do you believe Michael’s story?” Patrick asked Frankie.

“I don’t know.” Frankie said truthfully. “It was pretty detailed for him to make up. And I kinda heard the singing. It was soft but…”

The sound of a snapping branch made Frankie and Pat jump.

“Oh God,” Pat whined.

Frankie gulped and turned towards the sound. “Who’s there?” He attempted a brave voice but it can out weak and trembling.

Michael jumped from the darkness in one movement, a loud growl coming from his mouth.

Frankie and Patrick both screamed. Frankie leapt from his log and Pat hid behind him.

Exploding in laughter, Michael doubled over. He wrapped his arms around his gasping stomach. His laughter was so overwhelming, he was knocked to his knees.

“Michael!” Patrick shouted. He sped over to the teen and began hitting him on his arms. “You’re wretched! You’re horrible!”

“Ow!” Michael cried between laughing. “Come on, Patrick. It was a joke!”

Frankie slowly felt his blood begin to move again. He managed a weak chuckle. “Funny, Michael. Haha.” He put a hand of his pained chest.

Patrick shoved Michael to the ground. “It was not funny! I nearly shat myself.”

Walking away from Michael, Pat sat back down on his log. He glared at his friend as he lay in the dirt. Frankie helped Michael up.

“Patrick,” Michael was still smiling. “You can’t possibly say it wasn’t-”

“Michael, don’t move! There’s a fucking snake!” Patrick cried, pointing down.

“Where?” Michael’s voice was reduced to a high-pitched whimper. He stumbled back and tripped over the log. He landed hard on his backside.

Patrick burst into giggles. Frankie let out one snort and quickly stopped.

“Fine,” Michael mumbled. “We’re even.”

“Not hardly,” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Did your brother really tell you that story? Or are you so totally full of shit?”

“I’m so totally full of shit,” Michael confessed.

Patrick frowned and appeared to be thinking, “Well,” he said at least. “At least you’re willing to admit it.”

“Hey, check it out!” Frankie gestured to the sky.

A wonderful array of shooting stars swept across the sky like paint from a paintbrush. Michael got up from the ground and sat next to Frankie. Frankie slipped his hand into his boyfriend’s.

Michael squeezed Frankie’s hand. He moved close to him and planted a fast kiss on Frankie’s cheek. “You were right, Patrick. This is pretty cool.”

“Eh,” Pat shrugged. “I thought it would be a little more impressive.”

The next day, Pat went to drama club alone. He explained to Michael and Frankie that Ms. Palmer wanted to go over next year’s possible plays with him and having his friends there would be distracting. Frankie wasn’t too disappointed. After Patrick spun on his heels and left them in the dust, Michael suggested they drive the Bentley to the cliffs.

They drove in silence, Michael’s head resting on Frankie’s arm. After parking the car, Frankie pulled himself and his boyfriend onto the hood. 

He pressed his body into Michael’s and kissed him deeply. Michael held on to Frankie’s leather jacket tightly and wouldn’t let go, even as Frankie broke the kiss. He moved on to Michael’s graceful neck, pushing aside the hair in the way. Frankie licked at Michael’s skin, savoring the salty taste. He carefully touched his teeth to tender, soft skin. He could feel Michael’s quickened pulse in his mouth.

Michael hummed with pleasure. His hands ran up Frankie’s chest.

Frankie followed Michael’s movements. He also slid his free hand up Michael’s body. He enjoyed feeling Michael’s chest move as he breathed. Frankie took it one step further, slipping his hand under Michael’s shirt. Michael giggled quickly as a nervous but determined hand moved past his stomach.

Frankie reached Michael’s nipple and had an inner panic attack. Every girl he had ever had sex with loved having their nipples touched and sucked upon. At least they acted like they did. Frankie had seen enough porn videos to know men liked it too. He knew he liked it although a girl had never initiated it so far. He knew liked doing it. 

Quickly deciding a distraction was necessary, Frankie closed the space between them and gently sank his teeth into Michael’s exposed neck.

Michael made a noise partly of surprise and partly of delight. Frankie ran his thumb over Michael’s nipple and thankfully, Michael’s body responded positively. He moved his cheek over Michael’s and felt his face was hot with lust. Michael moved his face away to kiss him.

Frankie lightly rubbed at Michael’s nipple, his other hand occupied with keeping himself up. His privates swelled against his leg. 

“Do you…” Frankie began, biting his own lip hard. “Do you want to go inside the car?”

Michael wiggled out from under Frankie. With his boyfriend’s body heat, Frankie felt cold and distressed. “Do you have condoms?” Michael asked.

“Oh, uh,” Frankie was surprised. He always assumed Michael wouldn’t want to use them, considering there was no potential of pregnancy. “No. No, I don’t.”

Michael somehow persuaded Frankie’s body down before he even realized it. Michael sat, one knee between his boyfriend’s legs, pressing into the stiffened shaft. “Well. I think it would be messy… without condoms. I don’t want the Bentley to end up with stains.”

Frankie giggled and watched as Michael slowly crawled down his body, stopping at his bulging jeans. “Is that really what you care about?”

Michael sighed, his hot breath sending chills from Frankie’s groin to his toes. With nimble fingers, he unbuttoned the jeans. “A Bentley is very expensive, Frankie.” he was using a slow voice as though Frankie were a toddler.

“Mmm,” Frankie smiled down at him. He was unzipping Frankie’s pants. “I want to touch you. Come up here.”

“Nope,” Michael’s pulled at Frankie’s boxers and suddenly his dick was revealed, reveling in spring breeze. “You said next time I would get a turn.”

Frankie’s nails scratched at the hood of the car. Michael’s face was so close to his cock. He licked his pretty lips. And put them to the tip of Frankie’s dick, kissing it.

“Oh, fuck,” Frankie groaned as Michael ran his wet tongue down his shaft and back up. 

Michael looked up at the exclamation. He was grinning as he licked, a look on his face that somehow appeared innocent and dirty at the same time. He closed one hand around   
Frankie’s cock and applied just a bit of pressure. Frankie’s whole body shuddered.

Michael used his hand to position the cock in front of his lips. He opened his mouth and took the throbbing shaft, sucking oh so carefully.

Frankie threw his head back, unable to watch the scene. He could already feel a build-up deep in his body. He didn’t want to cum just yet. He wanted to observe Michael sucking on his dick, eyes closed, black lashes casting shadows on his hollowed cheeks. But he couldn’t. It was too intoxicating.

After a moment, Frankie allowed himself to look again. Michael was going down with his mouth with a fairly slow pace. He seemed to be trying to take more of Frankie in his mouth with each downward movement. Michael suddenly became too excited and broke the slow pace, putting almost all of Frankie’s dick in his mouth at once. He choked and pulled away from the cock. 

Frankie grinned and held back a laugh. ‘He’s fucking adorable,’ he thought, mindful to keep this note to himself.

Michael looked up, holding Frankie’s dick in his hand. His eyes were shy and intimate but his lips… his lips were rose-colored, glossed with saliva.

“Michael,” Frankie whispered. His cock begged for release but he was too hypnotized.

“What?” Michael asked. His eyes widen as though Frankie were going to tell him to stop.

Frankie’s body jumped on itself and he let out a quiet grunt. He grabbed a fistful of Michael’s hair. Michael got the message. He opened his mouth once again for Frankie’s now aching dick. He used his tongue to roughly move up and down as he sucked. Frankie’s muscles tightened. His head swam with desire.

“I’m going to cum,” Frankie gasped. He could feel himself reaching a peak. “Michael…”

“Mhm,” Michael’s voice vibrated his cock. The sensation was too much.

Frankie came uncontrollably, arching his back against the hood of the car. He felt himself spill into Michael’s mouth. After his body collapsed back on the car, he opened his eyes   
just in time to see Michael swallow and wipe his mouth of spit.

Opening his shaking arms, Michael nuzzled his face into Frankie’s chest, still working to breathe normally.

“Holy fuck,” Frankie panted. “You’re really fucking… really fucking sexy, you know that?”

Michael giggled at the compliment. “You’re sexy when you cum.”

They lay for a few minutes, soaking in the wonderful sun and cool breeze.

“Hey,” Frankie suddenly opened his eyes and felt himself smiling. “Did you, like, swallow?”

“Yeah,” Michael lifted his head to look at Frankie. “Patrick said that you’re supposed to.”  
Frankie’s burst of laughter came so quickly, he knocked his head on the windshield. “He told you to swallow? When did you guys talk about this?”

“When you were in Nevada,” Michael jerked away from him. He turned so Frankie couldn’t see his face. “I told you all we did was talk about sex. Patrick said it’s impolite not to swallow.”

Frankie howled with laughter, holding his side as they pinched painfully. He pictured Patrick sitting on his bed, painting his nails and explaining how to properly suck a dick to   
Michael, who is all ears and taking notes. Tears came to Frankie’s eyes as he cracked up.

Michael whirled around. The look on his face was total loathing. Frankie immediately stopped laughing.

“You know,” Michael spat. “If you didn’t fucking like it, maybe you should find somebody with more experience.” He scrambled to get off the hood.

“Oh, baby,” Frankie shook his head. Guilt poured through him. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Michael wrenched open the passenger side door. “Asshole!” he yelled and slammed the door after getting in.

Frankie quickly got off the hood, worried about Michael starting the car and attempting to run him off the cliff.

He got inside the Bentley. “Michael, I didn’t mean it like that! I meant it’s funny to me that you would ask Patrick for sex advice. It’s just… It’s funny. Don’t you get that?” he was begging now.

Michael was quietly seething. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Frankie whispered.

“Why is it funny that I’d ask Patrick?” Michael’s question was more like a statement, flat and deadly. “Who the fuck else would I ask about that? My mom?”

Frankie’s mind raced for something that would cool Michael’s temper. He, at last, decided the truth would be best. “I don’t know. It’s like… I was in Nevada with my grandma and you guys were here, talking about sucking dick and swallowing. It’s just…funny.”

Michael looked at Frankie. He was still angry but easing back to normal. “Did I…” his eyebrows tense and furrowed as if daring Frankie to lie to him. “do okay?

“Yes,” Frankie stressed. He mentally punched himself for making Michael feel insecure about his blow job technique. “I wouldn’t have cum in your mouth if you did a shitty job.”

Michael looked at him for a long time. His anger washed away. “Okay,” he said.

“In fact,” Frankie reached over and stroked Michael’s hair. “If you need proof, we could do it again. I promise I won’t say anything about you swallowing.”

Forcing back a smile, Michael growled and hit Frankie on the arm. “You’re an idiot.”

“I love you.”

“Whatever, moron.”


	17. My Old Aches Become New Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouija conversations.

“Uh… uh, yes. …Harder, Michael,” Frankie huffed. “Right there… Ahh.”

He felt Michael’s foot press into his back, just under his shoulder blade. The joint cracked out loud.

Frankie sighed, grinning to himself on the cold floor of the stage. There was nothing more satisfying than hearing the pop and snap of his own bones. Of course, his mother could step on his back and crack it much more easily than Michael. She weighed more. But Michael had a talent for grinding the ball of his foot into just the right locations.

“Listen to this, guys!” Patrick yelled from the piano.

Frankie’s cheek was pressed against the wood floor. “Go ahead, Pat,”

The sound of the same high notes of Patrick’s unfinished song echoed around the room.

“Clouds are marchin' along. Singin' a song, just like they do. If the clouds were singin' a song. I'd sing along, wouldn't you too? If you just knew, what they could do? Oh, if you just knew, what would they do?”

“And if the birds are just hollow words. Flyin' along, singin' a song. What would they do? If they just knew, what they could do? Oh, if they just knew.”

Frankie could feel the same stinging sadness he felt the first time he heard this song. It stabbed his skin like needles and hurt his heart.

“I know it's sad that I never gave a damn about the weather. And it never gave a damn about me. I know it's sad that I never gave a damn about the weather. And it never gave a damn about me… No, it never gave a damn about me”

Patrick continued his next, new verse with a voice, growing in volume. “I know it’s mad but if I go to hell, will you come with me or just leave? I know it’s mad but if the world were ending, would you kiss me or just leave? Just leave me…”

“If the clouds were marchin’ along. Playin' a song, just like they do. If the clouds were playin' a song. I'd play along, wouldn't you too? If you just knew, what they could do? Oh, if you just knew, what would they do? And if the words are just hallow birds. Flyin' along, singin' a song. What would they do? If they just knew, what they could do? Oh, if they just knew.”

“I know it's sad that I never gave a damn about the weather. And it never gave a damn about me. I know it's sad that I never gave a damn about the weather. And it never gave a damn about me… No, it never gave a damn about me.”

Patrick’s song faded, leaving Frankie like the sore knots in his body.

Michael stepped off Frankie’s back. “I like it. It’s bittersweet, kind of like someone who’s incredibly lonely but still hopeful for his life to get better.”

“I’m thinking of using this song for the protagonist in my fall play,” Patrick said as he got off the piano stool and walked up the stairs in the stage. Frankie sat up. He brushed off dust from his pineapple shirt.

“It’s about sex, basically.” Pat explained. “Not the song, the play. I had this vision last night of people dancing around with fishbowls attached around their heads. The fish being a representation of how many people they’ve slept with.”

“Sounds cool but how would you make the fishbowls?” Frankie asked. He stood up and continued ridding his clothes of dust bunnies. They were everywhere, clinging desperately to the entire front side of him. “Wouldn’t they be heavy if they were filled with water?”

“It’s not exactly a concrete plan yet,” Patrick said, grinning. The cogs in his brain were turning too quickly for their own good.

“Maybe you could use plastic instead of glass?” Michael was staring at the ropes hanging from the ceiling. His artist mind was racing for the answer to Pat’s problem. “Or you could fake the water and fish somehow.”

Patrick shrugged. He picked up his history and Spanish books from the floor. “I have the whole summer to figure it out. I thought maybe you could help me with the construction of the costumes, Michael and maybe Frankie, you could compose the music with me.”

Frankie smiled, thinking of the last play the three teens performed together. If this new show was anything like “Save Rock and Roll”, Miss Jackson would strongly consider expelling them. “Sure thing.”

“Are you guys doing anything after school?” Pat asked. His face was hopeful and a bit mysterious.

Frankie and Michael had skipped their last classes to come to the auditorium with Patrick. The final bell would be ringing soon.

Michael looked at Frankie, then shook his head. Frankie did the same.

“Good, good. Because well… I’ve been using that Ouija board I bought from the woman by myself but the thing is, all the websites say you usually have to have more than one person conducting a session. More energy to help the spirits come through, I suppose. I was thinking we could go to Death Valley and-”

Michael made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. “No way.”

“Why not?” Pat’s expression came crashing down. “I did all the necessary research. I bought sage to cleanse the board beforehand. I know what to say to make sure nothing weird happens.”

“This sounds like the stupidest idea ever,” Michael growled, crossing his arms. “Just because you fucking googled this shit doesn’t mean you should go around messing with supernatural things. You’re gonna end with a demon or something attached to you.”

Patrick’s face turned annoyed and pissed, “I know how to tell if it’s a demon, Michael. And all the experienced mediums say if you conduct a session in a cemetery, you’re more likely to contact real people.” He said this last part quickly, as though he weren’t completely sure of it’s legitimacy.

Michael rolled his eyes, “Frankie, you’re not gonna agree to this, right? It’s stupid.”

“Frankie,” Pat said his name but continued to stare at Michael. “Come on. You can come with me and maybe we’ll be able to talk to your dad. Don’t you have questions? Don’t be put off spirit boards because a Catholic is afraid of demons.”

Frankie took a deep breath and looked at the two squabbling friends. He knew he should side with Michael. Patrick wasn’t the one willingly kissing him and sucking on his intimate places. However, the thought of being able to communicate with his dead father was difficult to pass up. Frankie wasn’t sure whether Ouija boards worked or not, but he wanted to take the chance.

“Michael,” he said slowly, looking at his boyfriend. “I kinda want to see if this spirit board thing works…”

Michael’s eye twitched and Frankie could see the beginnings of a silent treatment brewing.

“It’s just,” Frankie was using a soft tone that he hoped would soften Michael’s edges. “It would be really cool… to talk to my dad again. To see if he knows anything about my life or about the twins. If it doesn’t work, then whatever. But I really want to give it a shot.”

The final bell rang as Michael stared back at Frankie. His outward expression was angry but Frankie knew it was only a mask. Michael was thinking over his words under the twisted frown and narrowed eyes.

“Okay,” he finally said. He blinked and the fuming face he was making faded away.

“Really?” Patrick clasped his hands together.

Michael looked at Pat and mumbled, “Yeah, whatever. But if anything goes bad, don’t say I didn’t warn-”

His words were cut off by a choking sound as Patrick threw his arms around Michael. Frankie stroked his boyfriend’s hair as he gasped, trying with great difficulty to free himself from Pat’s grip.

At last, Patrick allowed his friend to breathe. “Let’s stop by my house and get the board! And I can get some food too.”

Frankie grinned at Michael. They both perked up at the mention of food.

Death Valley was empty of living people as usual. Frankie was starting to wonder if anyone visited the graveyard but them. Still, it was three in the afternoon and the mausoleum was off in the older corner of the cemetery.

Patrick had packed quick lunches for his friends, consisting of apples, bananas, and water bottles that claimed on the packaging to be straight from the mountains of Iceland.  
Michael dug his teeth into an apple as soon as they sat down in the grass.

“We can eat first so we’re not distracted during the session.” Patrick said. His eyes were filled with delight as he set out his Ouija board. It folded up like an average board game and came only with a wooden triangle. Pat explained it was called a “planchette” and it was the object the teens would place their fingers on to “invite the spirits to move around the board”.

Frankie wasn’t hungry. But he chewed on a banana regardless, out of nerves. He looked to Michael, who had already reached the apple’s core. 

“Wow, Michael,” he teased. “I’ve never seen anyone eat an apple so quickly. Are you gonna eat the core too?”

Michael ignored his comments. He took the core in two hands and broke it in half. Digging carefully into apple flesh, he picked out the seeds and swallowed them.

“Dude,” Frankie shook his head, a smile never leaving his lips. “You’re not supposed to eat the seeds.”

“I always do,” Michael replied. “Apple seeds contain cyanide. I’m building up an immunity.”

Frankie chuckled lightly. “Why? Do you think someone’s going to try and poison you?”

He raised one black eyebrow, calmly. “You never know.”

“That’s a good idea,” Patrick nodded. Michael picked out another seed and gave it to him, in exchange for an antibacterial hand wipe. Frankie rolled his eyes.

“Are you guys ready?” Pat asked after gulping down the cyanide-laden seed.

Frankie set aside his half-eaten fruit.

“So, I already cleansed the board and myself with sage this morning. Now I just have to do it to you guys.”

Frankie and Michael exchanged looks.

Patrick brought out a small bundle of sage, tied with string. He lit the burnt end and blew out the fire, leaving it smoking heavily. He thrust the bundle towards Michael. “Think happy thoughts, only. Or if won’t work. Just be positive and calm.”

“Is that possible for Michael?” Frankie joked.

Michael bit on the smile that appeared on his lips. He stared at the burning sage.

When Patrick moved the sage towards Frankie, he sneezed. The smell was overwhelming and reminded him greatly of a musty pet rabbit he used to own. The rabbit’s name had been Craig.

When Pat finished “cleansing”, Frankie pulled his glasses out from his pocket. “Let’s do this. I have to be home soon.”

“Don’t rush things, Frankie, that’s rule number one,” Patrick said. “Rule number two is to never pick your finger up from the board without moving the planchette to ‘Good Bye’ first. We should talk to whoever comes up as a starter, and then we can ask to speak to certain people. You know, once you two get the hang of it. And never ask how someone died. It’s just rude.”

“Whatever, Patrick,” Michael set his pointer finger on the planchette.

“One more thing,” Pat waged his finger at Michael, “Don’t move the planchette around as a joke, Michael. Or I’ll take back the Bentley and you’ll never see it again.”  
Michael made a noise of irritation and mumbling something about how “The board wasn’t going to work anyway so what-the-fuck-ever, Patrick”.

The three teens set a finger each on the wooden planchette. Patrick instructed them to move the piece in a circle a few times to “warm it up”.

“Awesome,” Pat smiled. “Now, we want to speak only to human spirits. Only positive contacts. If anyone wants to talk to us, they can do so by moving this little triangle around this board. We have the whole alphabet here, numbers from zero to nine, as well as “Yes” and “No”.”

Frankie watched the triangle. It wasn’t moving.

“It usually takes a while.” Patrick said. 

The planchette suddenly moved an inch. Then settled back where it was.

Frankie quickly looked up to see if it was Michael messing around. Michael’s breathing had caught in his throat and his eyes were wide.  
Slowly, almost as though someone were bored with the game already, the wooden piece trailed across the board. It moved so forcefully, Frankie almost couldn’t keep his finger in place. The planchette slid off the board into the grass.

“This is good,” Pat said. He put the piece back on the board and moved it to “Good Bye”.

“Were you moving it?” Michael demanded to know.

The other teen looked insulted. “Of course not. I don’t mess around with the paranormal.”

Patrick set the triangle back to the middle of the board. The others placed their fingers on it and moved it, again, in circles. Pat repeated his speech to the spirits.

This time the planchette began moving right away. It slid to the letters “H-E-L-L-O”.

“Hello,” Patrick replied, cheerfully. “What’s your name?”

The piece hesitated, before replying “E-V-A-N”.

“Hi, Evan. My name’s Patrick. These are my friends Michael and Frankie.”

“H-I”.

“How old are you?” Patrick asked. Frankie could the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The planchette moved around the board in a confused manner. It finally landed on the “No”.

“Huh,” Pat considered this answer. “Maybe he doesn’t remember.” he said to his friends, and then to the board he asked, “Do you remember how old you are?”

“No”.

“That’s okay,” Patrick was smiling with confidence. “Hey Evan, my friend Frankie here really wants to walk to his dad. But it was nice talking to you.”

“Yes.” The board responded. Then moved around the letters in a frenzy, “A-D-G-A-N-I-C-E-T-T-A-L-K-P-A-A-T-R-I-B-C-K”.

“I think he’s saying it was nice talking to you,” Michael breathed. “I caught ‘nice talk Patrick’.”

“Cool,” Patrick moved the piece to “Good Bye”.”I am charming, even to the dead.”

The boys restarted the game, circling the board. This time, Patrick changed his speech to ask directly for Frankie’s dad. Frankie could feel a pit in his stomach, of nerves and hope.

The board was silent for a long time. When the planchette did respond, it moved around slowly, almost in a casual manner.

“Is there someone speaking to us?” Patrick asked. “Can you tell us your name?”

The piece stopped, and started again, moving to the letters. “F-R-A-N-K-L-I-N”.

Michael and Patrick both looked at Frankie. His mouth was slightly open in shock.

“Is that your dad’s name?” Michael asked him in a whisper, as though Frankie’s dead father could hear him if he used a louder voice.

Frankie didn’t have time to reply. The piece moved again, “F-R-A-N-K-I-E”.

“What’s your last name?” Even Patrick seemed a little thrown off by the contact.

“B-A-R-D… O-W-E-E-N-S… B-B-A-R-D”.

Frankie wanted so badly to believe the person they were talking to was his dad. At the same time, suspicion was gathering in his gut.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Patrick used his free hand to touch his shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded. Frankie spoke out loud to the board. “Uh, hi.”

“H-I”

“Do you know who I am?”

“B-A-B-Y… B-O-Y”

Frankie froze. He could feel his friends staring at him. “My dad, uh, used to call me that. When I was little.”

The planchette slid around, quickly. “N-O-T-L-I-T-T-L-E-A-N-Y-M-O-R-E”

The words stung his eyes. He sniffed and tried to remain composed. “Yeah, dad. I’m not little anymore…” he wanted to ask how he was doing, if he was happy wherever he was. But Frankie had a feeling the response would be too detailed for the board to convey. Instead, he settled on something else. “Have you seen the twins? Oliver and Elisa?”

“T-W-I-N-S… G-O-O-D-S-M-A-R-T… L-O-V-E-T-H-E-M.”

The teens waited patiently for the board to finish. 

“My dad died while my mom was pregnant.” Frankie explained, “He never got to meet the twins.” He inhaled and spoke again, “Is there anything you want to tell mom?”

“S-O-R-R-Y… F-R-A-N-K-I-E-I-M-S-O-R-R-Y…. P-R-O-U-D”

“You want to tell mom sorry?”

“S-O-R-R-Y… Y-O-U-T-O-O-S-O-R-R-Y.”

Frankie looked at Patrick. He shrugged.

“Dad, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“T-E-L-L-M-O-M… T-E-L-L-M-O-M”

“Tell mom what?” he asked. His mind raced with explanations.

“T-E-L-L-M-O-M-T-E-L-L-H-E-R… F-R-A-N-K-I-E.”

“I don’t know what he means,” Frankie whispered.

The planchette danced around the board, not stopping at any letters or numbers. 

“Maybe he went somewhere else.” Pat suggested. To the board, he asked, “Is this still Frankie Owens-Bard senior?”

The triangle stopped in it’s tracked and backed up to the answer, “No.”

“Okay, what’s your name?”

Frankie’s arm was starting to ache. Michael switched hands.

“D-A… A…”

“Frankie has to go home soon.” Michael reminded Pat.

Patrick nodded.

“N… R-O-B-O-T-T... M-A-N”

Frankie raised his eyebrows. Robotman was a character from the Doom Patrol comics.

As soon as the planchette settled on it’s final letter and the name sunk in, Michael ripped his hand away from the wooden triangle.

“Michael!” Patrick scolded.

“This game is such shit.” he spat and got up to walk away.

Patrick and Frankie moved the piece to “Good Bye” and jumped up to follow him.

“Michael?” Frankie reached out to grab him. As his hand gripped Michael’s arm, he jerked away and turned around. There were clear tears gathering in his eyes. 

He sniffed and hissed through gritted teeth, “This game is dumb. I don’t want to play.”

“You don’t have to,” Patrick said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Taking a couple trembling breaths, Michael looked at the ground. “I used to call my brother that. Robotman. Like the superhero from Doom Patrol because he was our…” his voice crackled. He bowed his head low, hair becoming a curtain to hide his tears. “…favorite character.”

Frankie wrapped his arms around Michael as he began to cry. Patrick did the same.

“I don’t want to talk to him.” he choked as he spoke.

“You don’t have to. It’s okay.” Frankie whispered. He pressed his lips to Michael’s hair.

“It was his fucking fault for driving drunk… he promised he would come home. He promised. I don’t even miss him…” Michael was pressing himself into his friends for comfort. 

Frankie held him tightly, thinking maybe if he squeezed hard enough, it would make things better. It was what his mom did after his father died.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” Pat was biting his lip. “I didn’t mean for anything…” his voice teetered off.

“It’s not your fault.” Michael lifted his head, at last, wiping at tears. “H-his stupid ass isn’t even buried in this place… We couldn’t afford a coffin. He was cremated.” He gave a bitter laugh. “We’re bad Catholics.”

“You know when I came to visit you the first time, your mom thought I wanted to see Danny,” Frankie said, looking at Michael with a small smile. “She handed me the urn all proudly.”

Michael coughed and laughed. He let go of his friends. “My fucking mom. She always liked Danny the best even when he was in trouble.”

Frankie grinned back him.

“Do you guys want to go home?” Patrick asked. “It’s 5:30.”

“Yeah,” Michael said slowly. “Let’s go.”

That night, Frankie lay in bed, running the memory of the spirit board session in his mind over and over again. He believed it was his father. No one else calls him “baby boy”. No one else would have the answers the board had. 

“T-E-L-L-M-O-M” the board had spelled out. He had been pleading. Begging his son to tell his mother something but what? Frankie didn’t know. He wondered for a moment if his dad meant to tell his mom about Michael. 

‘But he seemed so urgent. I’m going to tell her about it eventually and Dad would know that. He wouldn’t think it was that big of a deal,’ Frankie mulled over this.

Sighing, Frankie finally gave up and shut off his nightstand lamp. He checked his partially open window once again in case Michael came over. After confirming, he pulled his blankets up and fell asleep.

He was at the funeral. And he was so small. His mother was bent over the coffin, sobbing, belly near bursting with pregnancy. ‘Don’t lean like that. What if the baby gets hurt?’ he wanted to say. But he couldn’t because his mouth was covered by a hand. Looking up, a woman was there. Standing so tall in her heels, she was looming. Cracked in half as she reached down, like a tree branch strangling him. ‘Such a good boy, so grown-up. Don’t worry. This is what grownups do.’ She had no face. He looked over to his mother. He forced a scream through manicured fingers pressed on his lips. No sound. Not even his mother’s crying anymore. He looked up again. She was stretching her faceless head, ripping open skin, teeth and blood. She was binding him with long limbs. She lurched at him. Teeth, blood, lipstick, darkness.

Frankie woke himself with a gasp, his throat constricted and swollen from tears. He pulled himself to hands and knees. His stomach was crawling it’s way up his lungs and heart. 

Falling from his tear-soaked bed, he crawled towards the bathroom but didn’t make it in time. He retched once, then vomited on his carpet. Half a banana and stomach acid.

Coughing, Frankie tried hopeless to control his body once again. It felt like he was suffocating. And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was dying. In a last ditch effort, he grabbed Little Frankie, his Valentine bear, from his seat on the nightstand. He held it’s furry head to his mouth.

“It was just a dream,” he said to Little Frankie, afraid to close his eyes, afraid of what he might see if he did. “Clean up the puke, brush your teeth and go to sleep. You’re fine.”  
Shakily, he stood. “Actually,” he said aloud. “I don’t even remember it now.” It was part truth and part lie. As long as his eyes remained open, he could focus on not remembering. 

But when he blinked, there were teeth and hands and muted voices.

Flipping on his light, Frankie set Little Frankie back on his nightstand and cleaned up the mess he had thrown up on the floor. It was difficult. But after scrubbing and spraying disinfectant, Frankie was sure the smell, at least, was gone.

Before laying back on his bed, he checked on the twins. They were sleeping peacefully. He checked on his mother. She was snoring in her own bed.

“Good,” he said to himself. He paced around his room, light still on. “Everyone’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

A knock came from the window. Frankie whirled around, breathing turned quick and terrified. Michael was opening the window wider so he could enter the room.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His mouth turned down with concern and he sped over to where Frankie was standing. “You look really freaked out.”

Frankie let out a fake chuckle. “I’m fine. I just… I just woke up from a crazy nightmare.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” The look on his boyfriend’s face was agonizing. His eyes were filled with such worry. He touched his bare arms gently and Frankie responded by flinching.

“No,” Frankie shook his head a little too aggressively. “I don’t even remember it.”

“Okay,” Michael whispered. He slid his hands under Frankie’s arms and wrapped himself around his chest. 

The warmth from Michael’s body suddenly reminded Frankie how cold he was. He was cold in his ribs, his stomach, and his throat. He clutched Michael closely, pressing his cheek to unbrushed hair. Michael was like personified chicken noodle soup. Frankie’s eyes burned. But he didn’t dare close them.

Frankie was sure Mrs. Darpin thought he was high. His eyes were bloodshot from hardly blinking all night. Even with Michael securely fitted against his body, he didn’t sleep. He forced himself not to. Instead, he studied Michael’s beautiful face, every curve of his lips, the line of his jaw, the arch of his eyebrows. It occupied him until sunrise. And for once, Frankie got to say goodbye to his love in the morning as Michael crawled out the window to get dressed in his own room.

He tried to listen to his teacher. But the buzzing of florescent lighting pinched his brain. Every so often, Frankie would close his watering eyes. And whenever he opened, the room spun like a top.

“Frankie?” Pat whispered from behind him. “You should go to the nurse.”

Frankie breathed in and out. “I’m not sick.”

“But you said you had a headache… and it could be a migraine if the lights are bothering you so much.” Pat pet the back of Frankie’s head. “Plus you look like total shit.”

Slowly, Frankie blinked. He tuned out Patrick’s urging and waited until the bell rang. When it did, it rattled his insides.

By lunch, Frankie perked up a bit. He decided consciously to not ruin his day with a stupid nightmare he didn’t even remember. He even visited the nurse, like Pat suggested, and was given a pain killer and a lecture on sleeping eight hours a night.

Seeing his friends smile at him from their lunch table was a pain killer by itself.

“Hey guys, sorry I was gone,” Frankie put his tray down and sat next to Michael. “I went to the nurse and got headache meds.”

“I thought they weren’t allowed to do that,” Michael said. He was helping himself to Patrick’s school lunch of nachos but didn’t attempt to steal any of Frankie’s.

“They aren’t allowed to give you prescription medicine. This was just aspirin.” 

“Well,” Michael replied between crunches of artificial cheese and chips. “If you feel like you need anything stronger than that, I have Xanax and vodka in my bag.”

“I have Prozac and Paxil.” Pat added. He picked up his plastic fork to shoo away Michael’s hand.

Frankie laughed a little and picked up a chip. “Guess I should’ve just come to my friends and their mobile pharmacies instead of the nurse.”

“Could you steal from your boy toy, Michael?” Patrick scowled. 

Michael looked at Frankie’s plate and back at Pat’s. “Yours looks more appetizing.” 

“It’s the same meal!”

“It’s all about the challenge. Frankie is not going to fight me.”

Frankie smiled and drank from his milk carton.

“Oh!” Patrick sat up quickly. “I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned this! I have a proposition for you two…”

“Every time you say that I get a little nervous.” Frankie admitted, putting his milk down.

“It’s nothing bad. I was just wondering if you guys wanted to come to prom with me. It’s coming up next month.”

Michael raised his eyebrows skeptically, “Prom is for upperclassmen. We can’t go.”

“Yes, but sophomores can go if they are invited by juniors or seniors.” Patrick folded his arms on the table. “I know this girl from summer drama camp, Susan. She doesn’t go to this school. But she invited me to her high school’s prom. I told her I would go but I asked if she had friends that would be willing to invite you two so I would know more than more one person at the dance.”

“I don’t want to go to prom with some chick I don’t know,” Michael immediately protested.

“Chill, Michael. I wouldn’t dream of giving you girl cooties,” Pat said, grinning ear to ear. Michael sat back, glaring. “But Susan has two best friends that are lesbians and dating each other. The deal is, they invite each of you and everyone gets to go with their own significant queer other. How does that sound?”

Frankie shrugged. He never cared much about prom. The idea of going to a different school’s prom seemed less stressful than Holy Trinity prom, though. And the idea of seeing Michael in his black gothic-style suit again and dancing closely with him piqued his interests. He would be able to walk around the room, arm in arm with his boyfriend, showing him off. People would know they were together. This thought was as enticing as it was nerve-wracking. 

“Bleh,” Michael stuck out his tongue. He wasn’t sold on the idea just yet. “Prom will be boring. Just a bunch of idiot teenagers groping each other to music. And bad food.”

“But,” Pat offered. “If you suffer through prom, there will be plenty of after parties to choose from. All with booze. Most in hotels. And besides you both need to wear your suits somewhere before outgrowing them. It’d be a waste of money.”

Michael twisted his mouth to the side as he decided. Frankie knew booze was hard for him to pass up. “Okay. How bad would it be, right? And we can leave if it really sucks.”

After school, Frankie went home alone. He wanted to take an afternoon nap before dealing with the twins, energized by school and their afterschool kids club.

Frankie lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. Nothing. His body was roped to the bottom of the ocean but his mind was in the clouds. He quickly got up and attempted to organize his room, moving piles of dirty clothes and books from one side of the room to the other. He thought it might help. 

He lay down again. Breathing slowly, Frankie could feel the beginnings of sleep take hold, although a snake of unease slithered just under his skin. He managed to ignore the bad feeling just long enough to fall asleep so rapidly, his brain panicked. Images of cliffs and sky ran through his mind at lightning speed. Frankie gasped himself awake.

“Fuck,” he sputtered.

From the other side of the house, someone knocked on the door.

Frankie lifted himself up. The prospect of a visitor was now very welcome. He didn’t want to be alone anymore.

“Michael?” Frankie said as he opened the front door. “The front door isn’t usually your style. Why didn’t you come through the window?”

“My mom is sitting outside, smoking.” Michael explained. His expression was impossible for Frankie to identify. “Can I come in?” 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Of course.” 

Michael walked into the house like he was stepping gently on glass. Frankie closed the door and followed him to the living room.

“Are you okay?” Michael finally turned around and looked at Frankie, his face still between emotions. “Like, does your head still hurt? Cause I can leave if you want to sleep or something.”

Frankie reached up and touched his bangs as a reflex. The aspirin he was given at school did a fantastic job at keeping him numb. His head was physically fine but the rest of his body still ached from lack of sleep. “My head doesn’t hurt anymore. And actually,” he added with a grin. “I’m glad you came over. It’s too quiet without your quick wit lips around.”

His boyfriend looked unconvinced. But he smiled like he could convince Frankie otherwise. “It’s too loud at my house. As soon as I came home, Alexander was leaving and my mom was going crazy around the house, bitching and screaming about killing jars.”

“What’s a killing jar?”

Michael shrugged and sat down on the couch. “She’s pazza.”

Frankie made himself comfortable next to his friend. “What does ‘pazza’ mean?”

“Crazy,” Showing a white-teethed grin, Michael leaned back on the couch.

“Hmmm…” Frankie reached out to play with a lock of Michael’s hair.

“Hmmm, what?”

He carded a hand through Michael’s hair until his arm could rest around his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Oh, nothing. …I just think it’s kinda sexy when you speak Italian. Even if it’s to insult your mother.”

Michael arched an eyebrow. His smile was coy but his eyes were telling. Frankie had one more idea on how to cheer himself up and only Michael could help him.  
Frankie pulled him tightly and kissed his waiting lips. Michael responded by breaking away and whispered something sweet and foreign in his ears. He could have been listing off types of shoes and Frankie would still think it was hot.

“Let’s go to my room,” Frankie got up.

Michael eagerly followed.

The two boys were wound together before they even hit the bed. Michael twisted his arms around Frankie and settled himself under him. Frankie attacked with soft lips and careful teeth, starting at his mouth and moving down Michael’s jaw to his neck.

“What was that?” Michael asked. He was running his hands up and down Frankie’s chest.

“What was what?”

The door swung open and Frankie’s mom stood with the knob in one hand and her purse in the other.

Michael grabbed Frankie’s shirt and launched him off the bed. He hit the floor, hard. His mother’s unimpressed frown now upside down.

“Mom!” Frankie’s voice was high-pitched, piercing.

“Frankie, Michael,” she greeted them. “I got off a bit early to do some grocery shopping. Could you two help me with the bags? The twins aren’t home yet.” Trisha took her hand off the door knob and added, “Oh, and after that, I need to have a little chat with you two.”

“O…kay,” Frankie forced the word out. Michael was still in frozen rabbit mode on the bed.

Mrs. Owens-Bard smiled and walked back out of the room, leaving the door open.

Frankie glanced at Michael. He was looking out the window, possibly planning a fast escape. 

“Come on,” Frankie took his boyfriend’s hand. “If she were mad she would have started screaming already.”

The teens brought in the grocery bags as Frankie’s mom sat at the dining room table with a smaller plastic bag. She watched them unpack the food items into the kitchen cabinets and fridge, all the while a small but steady smile on her face.

“Alright,” she spoke up as Frankie and Michael finished the task. “Pull up a chair, kids.”

Frankie sat down in front of his mom. Michael took the set next to him. Frankie squeezed his hand, reassuringly, from under the table.

Trisha laced her fingers together and studied the boys. “First of all, I’m not mad.”

The boys said nothing.

“If anything, Frankie,” she said, looking at her son. “I’m a little disappointed you didn’t feel like you could come to me from the start.” Her eyes crinkled. “I mean, you know I don’t care who my kids love. Did you think I would be angry, Frankie?”

“No,” Frankie took a breath. He was suddenly reminded of his guilt. He should have told his mother months ago but for some reason, not telling her became a habit. It wasn’t purposeful, just convenient. “I just, I don’t know, I guess I kinda thought you could just… figure it out without me telling you?”

His mom laughed. “Well, I suppose that’s what happened, didn’t it?” She grinned at Michael, who still did not relax his tensed form. “Your little Valentine bear gave it away, baby. I saw that little guy and thought, ‘My boy hasn’t been hanging around any girl since we moved here. Just Patrick and Michael.’ And of course, since Frankie here got into that fight over you, well, I kicked myself for not seeing it sooner.”

Michael was not letting his guard down that easily. He gave a polite, subdued smile. Frankie could see him desperately trying to understand the conversation. 

“But anyway!” Mrs. Owens-Bard exclaimed. She rifled through her plastic bag. “Down to business, boys.” She pulled out two boxes of condoms and set them in front of the teens.

‘Oh fucking fuck,’ Frankie’s heart stopped as he stared at his box. “Mom,” his tone was pleading, hopeless. “We already know about-”

“Frankie,” Trisha was annoyed at the interruption. “This is important. Obviously neither of you can get pregnant but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be safe.”

“Mom… please.”

“Please nothing, Frankie Edison! You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

Frankie looked at Michael, even though every fiber in his teenage body told him not to. Michael was avoiding eye contact. Staring out in space with burning cheeks.

“Listen, boys. Here are the rules. I know teenagers have sex, okay? I was teenager once too. I’ve always felt telling kids not to have sex is pointless. What I would love to happen is for my children to practice safe, healthy sex…”

The light fixture above Frankie’s head was swaying ever so slightly. He wondered if he would survive if the fixture broke and fell directly on his skull.

“…And I would rather not have the twins coming up to me asking why Frankie’s bed is squeaking in the middle of the night. I’m trying to avoid that conversation for as long as humanly possible…”

‘Dear God, stop’ his eyesight was blurring.

“But, anyway I’m starting to ramble.” Trisha clapped her hands together. “Frankie, you know I gave you condoms a while back and gave you a big, ugly talk on pregnancy and STDs. I’m only giving you more to refresh your memory. You should always be careful even with a partner of the same sex.”

‘Is she done? Is she done?’ Frankie tried to look thoughtful. He nodded.

“Well, that’s really all I wanted to get across to you two. Any questions?”

Frankie and Michael shook their heads, feverishly.

Mrs. Owens-Bard clasped Michael’s hand. “Michael, my kid here has never had a really steady girlfriend.”

‘Before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger,’ Frankie reminded himself. He sank back into his chair, resigned to mortification once again.

“But I want you to know, you can come to me if you ever need to talk about something… Does your mother know about you and Frankie?”

“Um, no.” Michael glanced at him nervously before answering.

“I see. Waiting for the right moment?” Frankie’s mom smiled.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Alright then!” At long last, Trisha got up from the table. “I’m off to pick up your brother and sister.” And she was gone.

As soon as the door shut, Michael sprung up from his chair. His face was still flushed, from embarrassment and now, anger. “You owe me so fucking bad for sitting through that.”

“Hehe,” Frankie sheepishly shrugged.

Michael started towards the door.

“Wait, uh, Michael,” Frankie coughed. “Don’t forget your, uh, condoms.”

Stopping in his tracks, Michael whirled around. He snatched his box of condoms up and glared at Frankie.

Frankie expected him to say something but Michael’s face was switching from seething to neutral and back again. It was almost as if looking at Frankie’s face was making it hard for him to keep up his irrational fury.

Leaning down, Michael kissed Frankie’s forehead before he could stop himself, and stomped out of the house.


	18. Sleep

“And then she said ‘Frankie hasn’t ever had a steady girlfriend,’…”

Frankie carefully approached his two friends, seated at their usual cafeteria table. Michael was leaning forward on his elbows as he spoke. Patrick was snorting, choking on milk and drowning as he laughed.

He slid into the bench next to Michael.

“Frankie, dear Jesus,” Patrick’s grin took up most of his face, the smile echoing in his shining eyes. “Never had a steady girlfriend? And yet, your mother is practically throwing condoms at you.”

Frankie crossed his arms defensively and stared at his school lunch burger. “I’ve had sex before. And I’ve dated. I just haven’t really…”

“Ah, I see. You played the field.” Pat nodded, suddenly understanding. “Well, now you have Michael to domesticate you, you dog.”

Michael rolled his eyes. His eyes drifted between Patrick’s and Frankie’s lunches, trying to decide which looked more appetizing.

“Sure. Breaking hearts has never looked so cool.” Frankie said, chuckling, thinking back to the girls he courted. It wasn’t hard getting them interested; it was hard keeping them interested. ‘Boys like you are overrated,’ they would say. 

“Not in that denim vest,” Michael said. He breathed a sigh through his nose as he looked at his friend’s food. Apparently the choice was agonizing.

“Ha!” Frankie grinned and tried his best to look offended. “I’m sorry we can’t all look like Robert Smith.”

“Robert Smith?” Patrick asked.

“From The Cure,” Michael explained. “Frankie’s trying to insult me by comparing my fashion choices to a famous rock star. While he sits there in a black denim vest and acid   
wash skinny jeans like a goddamn Full House character.”

Frankie gasped from air as a wave of laughter took over him. He could see Michael giving just the slightest smile.

“Who’s the girl you’re taking to prom again, Patrick?” he finally managed to say.

Pat sat up straighter. “Susan. Susan Rose Samuels. We had a tryst at drama camp. I fell temporarily in love with her after our performance of Hamlet. She played Ophelia. She’s got a body like a symphony, that girl.” He shook his head at the memory.”But it never would have worked out. My parents would have been too pleased with the match. And besides, she’s from the town south of us. I don’t do long distance.”

“But she invited you to prom?” Michael raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, sure.” Patrick chewed on a bite of his burger.”We’re still friends. And she told me the other day a couple other drama camp people will be with us. Including this Latino boy, Rafael. If Susan is a symphony, he’s the rest of the fucking opera.”

Michael made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Is this prom deal just going to be me and Frankie playing your entourage while you make out with a bunch of people?”

“Possibly…”

Getting up from the table, Michael picked up his untouched tray. “We better start drinking before the dance” And he disappeared out the back door to smoke.

“Frankie,” Patrick gripped the table suddenly, his eyes gleaming with intense excitement. “Have you and Michael had sex yet? Like real sex?”

“Uh,” he flushed. “Not yet.”

“Oh…” Pat’s face immediately crashed. “Well, why not?”

Frankie coughed, awkwardly. “Patrick, I don’t think Michael would want me talking about this with you.”

“Why not? Michael and I talk about sex all the time.”

Remembering the swallowing incident, Frankie inwardly cringed.

“You know,” Pat mused. “I should have known you two hadn’t had sex yet. Michael definitely would have told me about it.”

“When do you guys even discuss these things? Are you having rendezvous without me?” Frankie asked, only mostly joking.

“In health class, usually.” Patrick offered up. “The teacher is so off half the time. I’m always turning to Michael and being like, ‘Oh, well that’s bullshit’ and ‘That’s wrong.’ And ‘That would never happen.’ It’s all abstinence and purity crap in that class. Anyone with a Cosmo magazine would know this shit. Michael asks me a lot of questions though. Because I’m knowledgeable.”

Frankie frowned. “Why doesn’t he ask me? I’m his boyfriend. I’m knowledgeable.”

Patrick slowly shook his head. “Frankie, you are just so thick.”

The bell rang.

The Friday before prom came so quickly that when Patrick mentioned it during math, Frankie nearly had a heart attack. Thankfully, he already had a suit and a ride and a date. All he had to worry about was going out to buy a flower for his date.

That was the plan until Michael crawled through his window at noon on Saturday and surprised him as Frankie ate chicken nuggets in the kitchen.

“Don’t buy me a boutonniere.” Michael said, creeping up closely to Frankie and tangling his arms around him.

“A what?” Frankie asked, his mouth full of chicken.

“A corsage. A flower thing.”

“Oh.” He swallowed the food. “You don’t want one?” Frankie wasn’t disappointed. He would save money this way. Last night, he had googled the price of the pin-on prom roses and almost fainted.

“Maybe. But this isn’t our prom. It’s just some dance we’re going to. If you want to get me a boutonniere you can do it in a couple years for our senior prom.”

“I thought you didn’t want to go to prom?” Frankie asked, slyly. He picked up another chicken nugget.

Michael growled. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Maybe when that day comes, the school will have sucked the rest of my soul out and I’ll have nothing else to do but go to prom with you.”

“It’s a date!” Frankie grinned and threw his arms around him.

The rest of the day was spent watching cartoons with the twins. At around 7pm, Michael left to get dressed in his house. And Frankie retreated to his room to do the same.

The grey suit looked even better on him than he remembered. His shadow was classy on his bedroom wall. He felt a bit like James Bond, if Bond ever went to a high school   
prom with his gay boyfriend. Frankie put on regular black socks before his shiny, expensive shoes. He had realized too late he didn’t have formal, dress socks. With any luck, Patrick wouldn’t notice.

Trisha Owens-Bard came home at 7:35 as Frankie sat on the couch, struggling with his tie. The twins watched in wonder, every so often adding a suggestion on how to properly tie it. These helpful hints only added to the frustration, leaving Frankie with a knot in the fabric and his stomach.

“Let me do that, Frankie.” His mother dropped her keys and purse and headed his way. “Your father was just as hopeless with ties.”

Frankie sighed in relief as Trisha fixed his mess. “There,” she smiled. “A half-windsor.”

“Thanks, mom.”

There was a soft knock at the door and for some reason, Frankie felt even more nervous than before.

“That must be Michael,” Trisha clapped her hands together. “Don’t worry, bud. I won’t take any pictures. I’ll wait for the next time.”

Frankie hurried to open the door. Michael stood, visibly uncomfortable in his all black ensemble. His hair was shining clean, brushed and tied in a small, perky ponytail, the locks that always came loose were tucked behind his ears. Michael’s crimson tie was knotted to perfection, making Frankie wonder if his mother did it for him. He doubted it. 

Michael pushed past him. Frankie snapped out of his dazed gawking.

“You look, uh, really,” Frankie searched for the perfect word. Sexy? Handsome? Cute? Michael looked like all of these. “…Cool.”

Michael stopped and looked at Frankie. There was a bit of redness to his pale face and he was trying not to let Frankie win by smiling. “Thanks.”

“I like your belt.” Frankie said. Michael was wearing a plain belt black belt with a tiny silver bat as the buckle. The detail was so small, you’d have to be staring directly at his crotch to see it, which Frankie was.

“Thank you,” Michael repeated, this time a bigger smile and more of a blush. “You look gorgeous.” 

“Thanks,” Frankie stammered. ‘Gorgeous. Why didn’t I think of that?’

“Oh, just look at you two!” Frankie’s mother appeared from the living room. “So cute!”

Just then, a short, loud car horn beeped from outside.

“That’s Patrick!” Frankie announced and quickly pulled Michael towards the door.

“Have fun, boys. And be safe.” Frankie’s mom called out. She gave him a knowing wink.

Patrick was seated; legs stretched out and crossed together, in the back of the limousine he had rented with his father’s golden master card. Even though Frankie had never been in a limo before, he was more impressed by Pat’s outfit than the huge classic-black interior of the car. Patrick was wearing a button-up, bloody mulberry-colored shirt and   
trousers to match. His suit jacket was darker, a purple that almost seemed black, and had a strange, flowery pattern to it, the same pattern and color that repeated in his bowtie. 

He wore a silver lip ring that tilted with his smile.

“You look interesting,” Michael said before Frankie had fully taken in the details of Patrick’s wardrobe.

“Thank you, Michael.” Pat smiled, the white in his teeth shining brighter against his colorful suit. He uncrossed his legs and Frankie could see that his black loafers had violet heel lifts that surely must have been custom made. “The town we’re headed to is only about forty minute away. The prom is being held in a banquet hall but Susan will be able to tell us more when we pick her and the other girls up.”

“Is there food?” Frankie asked, eye-balling the small fridge near Pat. He had always see TV shows about kids getting drunk in the backseat of the limo before dances. But mostly, he was just hungry.

Patrick flashed another wicked grin. “Of course.” He leaned down and pulled out what was hidden inside the fridge; small, wrapped cheeses, bottle water and cans of pop. “But no alcohol. The company doesn’t allow it.” Pat said this last bit loudly. He waved to the back of the driver’s head with one hand as the other pulled a sparkling flash from his jacket pocket.

Frankie grabbed three plastic cups from where they sat on top of the refrigerator and handed them out. Patrick poured each cup half full of Sprite and half full of whatever was sloshing around in his flash. 

‘I’ll bet it’s rum,’ Frankie thought to himself as he took a sip. The liquor burned his tongue and left a tingling feeling in his empty stomach.

“Will there be food at this deal?” Michael asked, hopefully. He had finished half of the drink without flinching and without stopping.

Patrick frowned, confused. “Did you two not eat dinner?”

They shook their heads, silently. 

Pat rolled his eyes and laughed.

“I thought you were supposed to go to dinner before prom,” Frankie defensively replied. He could feel a creeping warmness from his belly to his chest. Whatever was in the spiked Sprite was too strong to be drinking without food.

“Normally, I think you do but we got such a late start… Hold on, I’ll have the driver go through a drive-thru, if he can.”

The driver agreed in a robotically polite voice and somehow managed to maneuver the long vehicle through the drive-thru of a Taco Bell. Patrick started to pay but Frankie stopped him. His mother had slipped him fifty dollars as he woke up this morning.

Frankie bought himself a crunchy taco supreme with fiesta potatoes and a Mountain Dew and Michael, a chicken chalupa, a side of pintos and cheese and a Pepsi. Both boys ate, careful not to spill anything on their clothes.

“So,” Frankie stabbed a square of cheesy potato with his spork. “We’re picking up Susan and her two friends? Where are they like?”

Pat shrugged. He was nibbling on a bite of cheese. “I’ve never met them.”

The driver stopped the limo abruptly. Frankie squinted through the tinted windows and saw that the car had driven into a residential neighborhood without him noticing. Too wrapped up in his taco.

“We’re here. Shall I honk the horn?” the driver asked.

“Nope!” Patrick climbed out of the car quickly. Although the limousine was big enough for ten people, he still managed to bump into Michael and Frankie on his way out. He grabbed a black top hat from the step next to him.

“Should we-?” Frankie started to ask but Pat had already shut the door.

Michael breathed a long, defeated sigh. He reached for the flash that Patrick had left on the seat.

Frankie watched through the window as Patrick greeted what seemed to be Susan (she was petite with blonde hair cut into a pixie-style and was wearing a tight black gown and violet heels) and Susan’s parents. He was pulled into the house by a warm handshake.

“Aren’t we late?” Michael asked. Frankie could tell by his tone, his boyfriend was nearing a state of irritation that was hard to bring him back from.

“Well, the dance started at 8pm, so yeah. Patrick wants to be fashionably late, I guess.”

Michael grumbled.

“The later we arrive at the dance, the less time we’ll have to stay there,” Frankie pointed out. “And then we can go to the after party.”

The other boy looked at him for a moment, then kissed him. Frankie could taste the booze on Michael’s lips only faintly.

The limousine door opened, revealing Patrick and three girls. Frankie moved closer to Michael as if he needed to make room. Michael took his hand possessively, or self-consciously maybe, Frankie couldn’t tell.

‘Hello!” Susan picked up her dress carefully and climbed in, taking the seat in front of Michael. “Which one’s Frankie and which one’s Michael?”

“I’m Frankie,” he jutted out his hand as the girl made herself comfortable. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Introductions, wait, wait!” Patrick let the other girls take their places, one next to Frankie and the other across from her, though she saved the seat near Susan for Pat. Then   
he bounced in and settled. “Alright, this is Michael, Frankie, Wendy annnnnd…” He began listing off his own row. “This is Kate, I’m Patrick, and Susan.”

“Hi, everyone,” Wendy smiled at the group from beside Frankie. She had on an eye-catching yellow dress that greatly complimented her tan skin and stopped above her   
knees, showing off long legs. There were real daisies woven into her afro.

Her girlfriend, Kate, stayed silent but smiled as well. Her dress was long and spotlessly white. Her dark, brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in natural curls.

“It’s nice to meet you all.” Frankie said.

“You guys are all from Trinity, right?” Wendy’s dazzling smile came again. “I used to go there freshman year. But I transferred, really quickly. Didn’t like the people.”

Frankie managed to keep eye contact with Wendy, even though her dress was low-cut. “I just moved there this year. But not everyone’s bad.”

“I’d imagine so. Not everyone.” She laughed.

Frankie could Michael’s grip tighten. He could hear the almost silent beginnings of a growl.

“Would you ladies care for a drink?” Patrick asked, holding the flask up.

Susan giggled and pulled Pat’s arm down. She reached into her purse and pulled out a water bottle, sloshing with liquid. “We’ve got it covered, Patrick. Would you boys like   
some Barton’s?” 

Susan had said the right word. Michael relaxed at the promise of drugstore vodka. He let go of Frankie’s hand to take the bottle.

As the limo pulled near the entrance of a building with many stairs, everyone riding in the back was tipsy, nearing drunk and the water bottle was empty. Pat and Susan were whispering not so quickly in each other’s ear and nuzzling closely.

“Get a room you two!” Wendy joked as she picked up her purse from the floor.

“We will have a room, later.” Susan replied with a smirk.

“God,” Michael mumbled under his breath. Frankie could feel him rolling his eyes.

“Come on, let’s make an appearance then go to the hotel.” Kate said as she got out of the car. It was the first time she spoke during the ride.

The ballroom where Susan’s and the girls’ prom was being held wasn’t very big. Teachers at the door checked their tickets and let the boys through. And as Frankie looked from the hanging paper stars on the ceiling to the DJ in the corner of the room, he was no longer interested in the dance. His thoughts turned to the hotel and he hoped the after party would be a bit more exciting.

“We came late so we wouldn’t have to sit through the crowning of prom king and queen,” Kate explained to Frankie. Patrick and Susan had already dashed off to the dance floor. “So now we can just dance and eat.”

Wendy linked arms with her date before Frankie could respond and whisked her away, leaving only the sweet smell of daisies in their wake.

Frankie glanced at Michael. He was shifting from one foot to the other, unfamiliar with being in a room with so many strangers. 

“Do you want to dance?”

“Absolutely not,” Michael wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the crowded dance floor of teenagers.

“Okay…” Frankie sighed loudly and looked where Michael’s eyes were. “I guess I could ask Kate if I can dance with Wendy for a while. She seemed pretty cool, don’t you think?”

“What.”

“Or I could dance with both of them…”

Michael gritted his teeth and snaked an arm around him. He walked Frankie over to the dance floor.

Frankie smiled and placed his hands around Michael. “That wasn’t so hard was it?”

The song had changed from quick to slow as soon as the boys walked onto the wooden floor.

“I don’t know how to dance.” Michael admitted. He didn’t look angry anymore, just neutral with a bit of uncertainty. 

“It’s easy,” Frankie said. He pulled Michael close to him and swayed back and forth with the music. “You’re already doing it.”

The two boys danced through the song, Frankie chuckling every time Michael glared at a girl whose eyes lingered on him. He didn’t laugh, however, when a guy in a tux   
standing by the punch bar pinned his eyes to Michael. When the stranger’s eyes inevitably caught Frankie’s, he made sure to smile unkindly and hug his partner tighter.

“Look at Patrick,” Frankie said, grinning as he found their friend in the crowd of people.

Michael rolled his eyes, but smiled at the same time, “Looks like his outfit is the talk of the dance.”

“Does he even know that girl? How did he get her to kiss him that quickly?”

Shrugging, Michael breathed out slowly and put his head on Frankie’s shoulder. Frankie’s body warmed with the contact and he forgot about Patrick’s escapades. He ran his   
cheek down Michael’s soft hair and almost kissed a naked spot of skin on his boyfriend’s neck before reminding himself that they were in public.

“I wish we could run away from here. We could make a photograph dream on the getaway mile.” Michael sighed quietly from Frankie’s shoulder.

“Where would we go?” he asked.

There was a pause and Frankie realized Michael hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.

“New York.” Michael said at last. “Maybe Japan.”

“New York?” Frankie was grinning. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine living in the other side of the country. “Why not LA? It’s closer. We could come back and visit whenever we wanted.” Michael was shaking his head like Frankie just didn’t get it. “The point of running away is to never come back. I would never come back here.”

“Oh.”

The slow song faded away into some fast-beat radio tune. 

“Oh my God!” An Asian girl nearly ran into them. She was dragging a short, bored-looking boy behind her. “You two are soooo cute! Let me get your picture for the yearbook!”

Frankie stepped back a little. Before he could respond, the girl was snapping a photo, flashing lights into his unprepared eyes.

“So adorable!” The girl cried again. 

She reached a hand out to Michael’s hair. He jerked back, eyes flaming and teeth bore. The girl hesitated then continued, undeterred. “Your suit is soooo cool. Such an awesome goth fashion statement!”

“It’s not a fashion statement, it’s a fucking death wish.” Michael hissed through his clenched jaw.

Frankie laughed loudly as he tried to figure out what to say next. He finally decided on, “He’s just kidding! Thanks for the compliment!” and pulled his date away from the confused girl and her friend.

“I’m gonna find Patrick.” Michael said as the boys walked away from the dance floor.

“Alright, I’m gonna get some food.” Frankie glanced over at the plate of cookies on the snack bar. Michael nodded and disappeared.

The food choices weren’t entirely varied. Black paper plates filled with cookies and brownies littered the red-clothed table. Frankie grabbed two plates, one was for Michael, and took a little of everything, including the peach-colored punch. He set the plates and cups on the end of bar, unable to carry everything to a table at once.

“Hey,”

Frankie turned around, a bite of brownie chewing in his mouth. 

“You’re really cute.” The girl that stood in front of Frankie was beautiful, with pin-straight hair the color of desert sand and a small, freckled nose pierced on one side with a   
diamond. “Do you want to dance?”

“Sorry,” Frankie swallowed the brownie and it lay like a stone in his throat. “I’m, um, here with someone.”

“Oh…well,” she looked down, then back up into Frankie’s eyes. Every one of her features were opposite of Michael, he noted. Tan skin/pale skin, bright eyes/dark eyes, light   
hair/dark hair. Frankie forced himself to stop noticing. “Are you sure?”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. And that alone made him sick to his stomach. “I’m sure.”

She walked away, slowly and smoothly.

“Patrick said we can leave now... If you want to.” Michael was standing at Frankie’s side, suddenly. His face was shining with delight.

“Okay,” Frankie could feel something in him relax. He wrapped his one free arm around Michael as the other held his half-eaten brownie. “I love you.”

Michael flushed. He smiled with surprise and laced himself into Frankie’s embrace. “I love you too.” He pulled away after a moment. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Frankie’s brownie was now in his hand.

Patrick met his friends at the limo. The drive to the hotel was loud with conversation, the awkwardness of the first ride in the past. Now Susan, Wendy and Kate spoke like they’ve known the boys for years. Even Michael smiled and conversed with no mention of the murder machine or death wishes.

Frankie’s stomach fluttered nervously as the group was led by Pat and Susan into the lobby of the hotel and up the elevator.

“These two rooms,” Patrick pointed to the hotel room at the end of the hall. “They’re adjoining, I think. Those are the party rooms. Susan has rented the room down the hall for us and, oh shit!” he shook his head. “I should get you and Michael a room, shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know if we need one-” Frankie was cut off by Michael’s elbow in his lungs.

“Do you want to sleep on a hotel floor with a bunch of drunk people?” Michael scolded him.

Pat whipped around towards the elevator once again. “I’ll be back soon!” Before he left, he grabbed Susan’s hand and give it a chaste kiss.

“Patrick Dizco, such a charmer.” Susan smiled. “Come on, guys. Let’s check out this party before my idiot friends drink up all the booze.”

The hotel party was far more chill than Frankie expected. In one room, there was a table filled with bottles of alcohol, people laid about on the bed and the floor, or standing with   
backs against the wall. The TV was muted and bags of random snack foods were scattered about at random. The second room’s lights were dimmed and about twenty people danced, drunkenly, to music coming from iPod speakers. The bed had been pushed to a corner and two couples had squeezed onto it. Frankie only briefly looked at their sloppy kissing and rolling around.

“Jacob Rockwell, you fiend!”Susan shouted from next to Frankie. She darted off to the dance room.

“We’re going to get some drinks.” Kate said, smoothing her spotless dress. “You guys want to come?”

Frankie and Michael nodded, all smiles. They followed the girls to the table of booze. Michael quickly took two plastic cups and began scientifically measuring different chasers and alcohols into them. By the time he finished, the drinks were the color of emeralds and smelled sweetly of apples. Frankie could only taste the alcohol if he closed his eyes.

“Shit,” Wendy whistled as she held up a bottle. “Somebody spared no expense.” She took a swig and coughed afterward. “Jesus, fuck! It burns like the cheap kind.”

“I have to pee.” Kate announced. Her cup was nearing empty already and she hadn’t mixed. “Wendy, take me.”

Laughing, her girlfriend clasped a hand on Kate’s bare shoulder. “I shall take you, m’dear. Later, boys.”

“See you later, Wendy and Kate!” Frankie found himself saying in a loud voice. He mentally turned down his volume. The drink Michael created must have been stronger than it tasted. 

“Hey,” He looked at Michael. “You’re cute. I wanted to tell you earlier.”

Michael first looked confused, and then embarrassed, an intoxicated blush across his cheeks. He giggled. “You idiot, how are you drunk already?”

“I’m not drunk!” Frankie protested. “Maybe just a bit tipsy. What’s in this anyway?” He held up the cup and sloshed it around. It didn’t spill.

“Like, mostly whiskey.”

Frankie took another drink and hummed, delightfully. “Mmmmm, apples. That’s what it tastes like.”

Michael giggled again. His eyes were shining on Frankie in a way that he loved. 

“Here’s to tonight,” Frankie lifted his cup. “To living like life’s going out of style.”

They toasted and kissed with tingling numb lips.

“Let’s go dance.” Michael suggested. The whiskey must have affected him as well.

Frankie was pulled into the cramped, dark room. He managed to hold his drink with one hand and Michael’s waist with the other as the two spun and moved to the music.

“Hey,” Michael whispered in his ear. His warm breath moved from Frankie’s neck all the way down to his toes. The words Michael said next, Frankie couldn’t understand. They   
rolled off his boyfriend’s tongue like ocean waves. It took him a minute to realize Michael was speaking Italian.

“What did you say?” Frankie asked, breathless. He wished he could see Michael more clearly in the darkened room.

“I said, ‘You’re cute too.’ There was a flash of white that Frankie assumed to be a grin.

Frankie’s free hand moved up to Michael’s face. He rested his palm on his cheek and brought Michael’s lips to close to his.

“There you are!” Patrick yelled from the doorway, over the music.

He hopped excitedly past people and appeared in the middle of Frankie and Michael.

“I got you a hotel room,” Pat said to Frankie. Frankie was beginning to feel his sluggish, drunk blood flowing more soberly. He blinked at Patrick though he knew the look of annoyance was hidden in the dark, as was his semi-boner. 

Patrick pressed a hotel keycard into Frankie’s hand. He took the cup of whiskey away and replaced it with some sort of mini bottle. “This is from my friend, Roger.” Pat was speaking softly and urgently. “He and his girlfriend were going to do it tonight in their room but the chick got too drunk and puked all over his suit. What a mood killer, right?”

Frankie realized what it was. He swallowed and looked at Michael. He was standing behind Pat, no doubt glaring as he waited to get his boyfriend back.

“Uh, thanks, Pat. It’s a nice… gesture.”

Patrick was nodded as though to say, ‘I know, right?’ “Your room is 112. It’s down the hall and to the left. I’ll be around if you need anything.” Just like that, Pat was gone.

Frankie put his newly acquired bottle of lube in his pocket. “Patrick got us a hotel room. Cool, right?”

Michael closed the space Patrick had created and kissed Frankie. His hands tangled in Frankie’s hair. Frankie could finally taste the booze on Michael’s lips and tongue.

“Do you want to go to the room right now? We could, uh, order some room service?” Frankie asked. He was holding Michael close and speaking his word into hair.

Michael pulled away and grinned.

Their hotel room was quiet. Especially with the door closed.

Michael jumped onto the only bed in the room. It was big, taking up most of the space in the room, though there was an area by the curtained window with a table and two chairs.  
Frankie took the lube out of his pocket and placed in on the nightstand. “Patrick gave me this.” He said, smiling awkwardly.

Michael didn’t smile back.

“So,” Frankie looked away. His tongue stammered between sentences. “Do you want to order room service?”

“I’m not hungry.” Michael said. He moved over, indicating that Frankie should sit next to him.

“Oh…” Frankie sat down. “What do you… want to do?”

Michael’s warm hand enclosed around Frankie’s. He leaned forward, eyes closed, and waited patiently for Frankie to kiss him. He did.

Every light was turned off but one. And even that light was dimmed halfway down so Frankie could still see enough but Michael wouldn’t be self-conscious. Their jackets, shoes and socks were disposed.

Frankie undid each button on Michael’s black shirt with care. He could feel soft, hot fingers massaging up and down his own naked chest and it was hard to concentrate on his task. When the shirt was at last removed, Frankie dove down and kissed Michael’s skin. He licked at his sternum and where the curve of ribs crept through. Frankie knew Michael was trying hard to lay still. He listened, for a moment, to the sound of Michael’s pattering heart. And kissed a trail down to the buckle of his pants.

“Um,” Michael pressed his hands into the bed’s comforter and moved, slightly away from Frankie. “You should take off your pants.”

Frankie could see from the unsure look in Michael’s eyes that he didn’t want to be naked without him. He obliged. Buckle first, then pants. Frankie leaned over Michael in just in gray boxers and started to kiss him, rough, wildly. He unbuckled Michael’s belt and shoved a hand down to caress his bulge. 

This seemed to shock Michael out of his nervousness. He moaned softly and reached a hand down to touch Frankie’s clothed dick. Frankie pulled away, taking Michael’s pants with him. He tossed them off the bed.

Frankie wrapped his arms around Michael and held him so tightly, he felt like he could squeeze themselves together and never have to be alone again. He lined his throbbing dick with Michael’s and grinded against him, hard. 

“Ah, fuck,” Michael whimpered. 

“Does that feel nice?” Frankie threaded fingers through hair, close to Michael’s scalp and tugged, just a little.

Michael’s eyes burned with pleasure. He breathed through parted lips in short, fast gasps.

“Well, do you want me to fuck you?” Frankie was slipping his hand under Michael’s boxer and groping his shaft.  
Michael whispered, eyes shut. “…yes.”

“I can’t really hear you… Did you say ‘maybe’?”

“Fucking… asshole.” Michael managed to groan out. “Just fuck me… please.”

Frankie jerked his hand out from Michael’s boxers and with one fluid motion, pulled down the only remaining clothes on his love’s body. He made sure to remove his own underwear before stopping to admire Michael’s nudeness. 

Michael’s skin was like milk-colored marble, if marble weren’t hard, but softer than silk. And mouth-watering. Frankie nearly died when he noticed the little freckle-marks, one on his shoulder, one above his bellybutton, and one, that Frankie kissed before Michael could stop him, between his pelvic bone and the beginning of his thigh. He wished he had   
time, perhaps some other day, when he could explore his boyfriend’s skin, finding each and every one of those little beauty marks.

“Come on,” Michael mumbled. His face was red but smiling. “I thought you were going to fuck me?”

‘Okay,’ Frankie thought. He grabbed the lube from the nightstand and tried not to think about how he had no idea what he was doing. He was pretty sure it was just like having sex with a girl. A very attractive, virgin girl who Frankie loved more than anything. A girl who might punch him in the face if something hurt.

Frankie squirted the lube onto his hand. He lay over Michael and slipped his tongue into his mouth as his hand found Michael’s hole.  
“Just relax,” Frankie said. He pressed a finger inside.

“Okay,” Michael’s voice had switched from coy and cocky to shy and hushed.

Frankie worked quietly at stretching Michael out. He had read online that was what you were supposed to do. The lube helped immensely and Frankie silently thanked Patrick. He wasn’t sure whether Michael was enjoying the sensation or not. His eyes were closed and he was breathing in a controlled manner.

It was only when Frankie added a third finger that Michael’s eyes flickered open and he made a noise like a squeak in the back of his throat.

“Did I hurt you?” Frankie bit his lip but didn’t move his hand.

“No…” Michael said. He was lying. But still aroused.

Frankie’s cock was aching to the point that he could no longer ignore it. He squeezed a generous amount of lube onto it and touched himself, only to spread the gel around.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asked Michael again. This time it wasn’t teasing question but a genuine request of consent.

Michael grinned, out of nerves and adoration. “Yes, fuck me.”

Frankie pushed his pulsing cock into Michael as slowly as he could. He was pleased to find that working Michael open with his fingers made most of his dick slide easily in. He was about halfway into fucking Michael when his body suddenly tensed up. Frankie put a hand on his stomach and brushed the skin gently.

“Relax,” he reminded Michael. And causally continued.

When Frankie was all the way inside Michael, he paused. He let his lover adjust to the intrusion. The effort of keeping his hips still, of not fucking, was making Frankie sweat. But he wanted Michael to take the lead. He cupped a hand around Michael’s rigid dick and stroked him.

Michael fell apart under him, mewling and pushing himself onto Frankie’s cock.

Frankie decided he was adjusted. 

He leaned down so he could watch Michael’s face change as he pulled out his dick a bit, then thrust back in. Michael made a noise.

Frankie shifted his weight onto his arms and pressed his lips Michael’s collarbone. It was salty and wet. He pulled Michael’s legs further apart and began rocking into him steadily.

As Frankie held Michael and fucked him in long, sweeping movements, he couldn’t think about anything else but how much he loved him. He had had sex before, but never like this, never with someone who trusted him so fully, moaning and crying out under him. Frankie was completely entwined in Michael. Their body were two halves, ceaseless loving   
against each other.

The bed was creaking in a way that might have made Frankie laugh if he weren’t so focused. He knew he would cum soon. Watching Michael and feeling him squirm under him was just too much. He touched Michael’s stiff cock, feeling pre-cum trickle on his fingers. Frankie was glad neither of them were wearing condoms. 

An unstoppable build began in Frankie’s groin.

“I’m going to cum inside you.” He grunted as his thrusting picked up sped. He meant to ask it as a question. ‘Can I cum inside you?’ But it ended up being a statement. 

Michael just shut his eyes and nodded. Frankie loved the way his body moved while he made love to him.

Frankie reached down and pressed Michael’s body into him as he came, jerking. He still pushed his dick inside a few times after, as if to relive the orgasm.

As soon as Frankie ejaculated all that he could, he moved down, not stopping to catch his breath. His lips pressed against Michael’s dick, which Frankie imagined was painfully hard at this point. He glanced up to see Michael as he opened his mouth and took his shaft into it. Michael looked spent and desperate. His thin chest was racked with panting.

Frankie could taste the pre-cum and sweat, from his own body and Michael’s. He found out he really enjoyed sucking dick. At least, he enjoyed sucking Michael’s dick. He ran his tongue down the throbbing cock.

Michael cried out and grabbed a handful of Frankie’s hair. He pushed into his mouth, nearing chocking him. Frankie couldn’t smile with a dick in his mouth so he settled for sucking, careful but aggressive sucking.

It took only that much for Michael to cum. He whispered something Frankie couldn’t hear and spilled into his mouth without warning. Frankie swallowed, without thinking about it much. It wasn’t the worse tasting thing, and besides, it was polite.

Frankie crawled up next Michael and laced their naked, exhausted bodies together.

“I love you. Don’t ever leave me.” Michael’s words had no wall between them and Frankie’s ears. It was too much and too late to clothe his thoughts in thorns, like he always did.

“I love you. I won’t.”

They fell asleep with the light on.

The final bell always hurts his head. His classmates would start shouting joyfully, half-running out the door and back home. And he was always left alone. And she would always lock the door. She would smile.

Frankie could feel his body on the hotel bed, over the blankets. He could feel the body heat from Michael next to him. ‘Wake up, do it. You’re sleeping.’

He couldn’t move. She was over him and reaching down. With sharp nails that sometimes scrapped his sensitive skin. ‘I’m sorry, big boy. It’ll feel good soon. Just hold still.’ He was cold. He didn’t want to look down so he looked up. Buzzing, burning florescent school lights. He stared at the dead flies trapped in the glass. It hurts. And sometimes it feels good. But it was always bad.

‘Wake up! Fucking wake up!’ Frankie’s finger twitched. It was like he was paralyzed. His heart seized with terror that he would never wake up again. Soon, the bile in his stomach would come up through this throat and chock him to death while he half-slept.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home. He tried to shake his head. To tell her, ‘No!’ and run away. That was what you were supposed to do. But he didn’t want to be in trouble. His mother was so sad. He wanted to be a good boy for her. She was smiling. He started to cry and she opened her bloody mouth, a black, rotting tongue reaching to lick at his tears. The thing slid a stinking trail from his frozen face to his naked bottom half. It dripped dirtily down his legs.

Frankie woke up, coughing and choking. His eyes burned horribly. As though he had been dreaming with them wide open.

Michael lifted his head. “Frankie, what’s wrong?” He sat up.

He couldn’t answer. The images still flickered in his brain. He crawled out of the bed and collapsed on the floor.

“I’m fi-” The puking started. Michael fell out of bed, grabbing a small trashcan and shoving it under Frankie’s mouth.

“I’m okay,” Frankie’s voice was strangled between puking and crying. He threw up again, this time into the trashcan. Dark, brown chunks of taco and sweets.

“What’s the matter? Please tell me.” Michael was begging. He was pulling on his boxers.

Frankie stood as quickly as he was able. Black tongue twisting around a young, helpless body. He gagged again. Why did I let her? What’s wrong with me?

“I’m just sick. I… I need to use the bathroom.” Frankie started towards the bathroom, quickly.

“No, Frankie! Tell me!” Michael grabbed his arm and Frankie reacted. Hands under shirt, hands down pants and wet lips pressed to naked, crying flesh. Stop it! Frankie snapped his arm back, sending Michael to the floor. There was the sound of his body hitting the ground.

“Let go of me!” Frankie snarled. And stopped. He stared down at his boyfriend in confusion, as if just noticing he was there, on the floor where Frankie had thrown him.

“Fuck,” Frankie’s voice cracked. He slowly melted down. Sobs hit his trembling body like semi-trucks, each agonizing breath more horrible than the last. “I’m sorry. Fucking Christ. I’m sorry, Michael.”

Michael moved over to where Frankie was curled against the wall. He wrapped his arms around him.

“It’s okay. I love you.”

“No, it’s not okay.” Frankie could feel knives in his chest. Stabbing and spurting blood. “I’m so sorry. I pushed you. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Michael didn’t say anything. He just put his warm cheek on Frankie’s shoulder and stroked his back. The motion was so comforting, so loving that Frankie’s tears poured harder. 

He grabbed the first piece of fabric within arm’s reach, his maroon dress shirt, and miserably blew his nose into it.

“I’m such a fucking waste. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I didn’t tell anyone…” He sniffed. ‘I’m a waste. Filthy, fucking useless trash.’

“You can tell me now,” Michael whispered. 

“…I’ve never told anyone. It’s just… I mean, I didn’t want to upset my mom or anything. I don’t want to unload my stupid problems on you.”

“Tell me,” His voice was soft and firm. “Please. I love you so much. You’ll only feel better if you tell me.”

Frankie took a deep breath. He hadn’t thought about any of this for years. The occasional nightmare. Sometimes, he cried for no reason. Something he saw, or smelled that reminded his stupid brain of things. But otherwise, he ignored it. It wasn’t worth upsetting people.

“I… I had this teacher,” Frankie looked at the ceiling. His tears were pooling in the hollow of his tensed collarbone. “After my dad died… who, um, she…” He could feel more bile coming up his stomach. He swallowed. He didn’t want to say it. It didn’t have to be any more real than a memory.

“Did she… touch you?”

Frankie knew if he spoke, he would start crying again. He slowly nodded.

“Christ,” Michael said, quietly. His grip around Frankie’s body tightened, as though he could save him from the past damage. “Did she, um, do it a lot?”

Frankie closed his eyes. And opened them. “For months. And I didn’t say a fucking thing about it. It’s like I, like I let her do it.”

His head was suddenly so heavy. Frankie realized he was still violently shaking. It was making him so tired. 

“And the worst fucking part, I mean, the really fucked part? She was my favorite teacher. Isn’t that sick? I wanted to hate her half as much as I hated myself. But I couldn’t. I thought the whole time that I did something to make her do those things. Like, I was the one forcing her.”

“Baby,” Michael kissed his forehead. His voice was strained, like he might cry also. He kissed his wet cheek, and then his shoulder. “You didn’t do anything. That fucking cunt was sick. She should be in prison. You were just a little kid and she made you do things you didn’t want to do.”

Frankie sucked air. He hadn’t known he was holding his breath. The weight tied to his heart and head lifted and crumbled. All he wanted to hear for six years was that it wasn’t his fault. Michael was telling him that and he trusted Michael. A new crop of tears surfaced and ran down his face. But these tears didn’t hurt as badly as before.

“It wasn’t my fault.” He wept easily. “I was just a kid.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

“Idiot,” Michael kissed him on his shoulder again, then held up the back of his hand to kiss. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Okay,” Frankie wiped his face on his shirt. “Okay.”

The next day Frankie’s eyes were swollen. But he felt good. It was quiet on the ride home. Patrick sensed Frankie didn’t want to talk about whatever created the bags under his eyes and the tear stains on his shirt.

Frankie played with the twins until the sun went down. He read to them from his favorite childhood book, The Hobbit. And they fell asleep on the couch. When his mother came home, Frankie sat down at the table with her. He needed to talk her something. And she would cry, but Frankie would know it wasn’t his fault. And it would make him feel better to say it.


	19. Pull the Trigger All Wrong

Frankie had been holding Michael’s hand for so long, it was beginning to sweat. He separated his hand and quickly wiped it on his jeans before returning to lace his fingers between Michael’s. Using his other hand, Frankie picked up a French fry to eat. Michael smiled at him, which distracted him long enough to drop the fry in his lap.

Michael giggled at him and dropped his head down to nuzzle against Frankie’s leather jacket-clad shoulder.

“You two are absolutely disgusting!” Patrick shook his head. He plopped down in front of the two boys, dropping a plastic container of couscous and chicken on the lunch table.  
Frankie felt the weight of Michael’s head come off his shoulder. 

“Sorry, Patrick,” Michael said and moved a bit away from him.

Pat held up a ringed hand. “Don’t speak to me, traitor. Just the other day we talked about PDA in the hallways and of course you went on and on about how filthy the couples were and how it made you sick-”

“So how was prom for you, Pat?” Frankie asked. He brushed the fry off his lap.

Patrick stopped in the middle of his speech and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. His lip stud sparkled. “Well, I’m sure it wasn’t quite as exciting as your night, Frankie…”

Frankie looked at Michael, whose face managed to look guilty and innocent at the same time.

“…And a true gentleman never kisses and tells but…” Pat blinked once and looked up to the cafeteria lights. “Susan and I were very pleased with how the evening panned out. And I gave my first blowjob to Rafael. It went well.”

“First blow job!” Michael suddenly let go of Frankie’s hand. “What? You told me you’ve given blow jobs before!”

“I never said that.” Patrick replied. He took the top off his lunch container and took out a plastic fork. “I may have given you advice but I never said I was experienced in the matter.”

“You did say you were knowledgeable,” Frankie pointed out. An amused smile was creeping on his lips.

“Knowledgeable, not experienced. I read things.”

Michael gave an indignant scoff.

“Anyway, as I was so rudely interrupted,” Pat continued, shooting Michael a look. “It went well and Susan and I made out, we watched silly cable porn, and ordered room service. I did the deed with Rafael before all that. My only complaint would be that his cum was horrible tasting. I spat it out and gave him some much needed advice on eating fruits and drinking water.”

“You didn’t swallow!” Michael voice was growing louder. A few girls at the next table quieted and turned to them. “What the fuck, Patrick!”

Frankie was pressing his hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. It would be the end of him if he so much as chuckled.

Pat merely sat up straighter and closed his eyes. “I am indifferent and disinterested in what the critics say.”

“You asshole! You had me thinking this whole time-” The bell erupted through Michael’s furious words.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” Patrick said, suddenly losing his smile. His eyebrows furrowed and he did look very sorry. Then again, he was an actor. “Here, a token of my remorse.” He handed Michael his container full of food. 

Michael stared at him like he wanted to stay angry, but also wanted Patrick’s chicken. He grumbled and grabbed the gift.

Later that night, Frankie lay on the living room couch, his head hanging down and his feet in the air.

“I love you,” he announced with a smile to Michael, who stood, upside down in Frankie’s vision, in the corner of the room with his easel and paints. He was painting away on a portrait of a ghostly child.

“Shut up.”

Frankie frowned. Then the smile returned, “I’m just letting you know… that I love you.”

“Shut up! You said you wouldn’t bother me if I painted over here. Fucking Jesus!”

It was half past eight when Michael knocked on the Owens-Bard door and slipped, wordlessly, past Frankie to set up his easel in the living room. Frankie didn’t ask him why he had come over. The screaming from his neighbor’s house had been growing unusually loud lately, things were smashed and threats were shouted for the world to hear.

Frankie told Michael to come over if he didn’t feel safe. And now he was here. Frankie was relieved.

“Alright fine,” Frankie mumbled. He picked up his copy of “The Importance of Being Ernest” from the floor and began silently reading, glancing over every so often at his pretty artist boyfriend struggling to capture a dead child’s grin.

He managed to stay quiet for five minute straight. 

“… I’m hungry.”

“That’s tough, Frankie.” Michael’s eyes didn’t leave his canvas.

“Do you care if I invite Patrick over?”

“It’s your house.”

Frankie sat up on the couch and maneuvered his body to get out his cell phone. He texted Pat and tossed his phone on the floor afterwards.

“Hey Michael,” Frankie began again. He dog-eared his book. “You should totally make some of your delicious-”

Michael’s eyes screwed shut and his jaw clenched so tightly, Frankie could hear his teeth grinding. “SHUT THE FUCK…” His face suddenly relaxed. “Come here.”

Michael’s eyes opened as Frankie slinked over to him. He half-expected his boyfriend to punch his lights out. Although he doubted a punch from Michael would be enough to render him unconscious.

“Close your eyes,” Michael ordered, calmly.

Frankie tensed up. He closed his eyes.

He felt the cold sensation of paint being spread over his eyes and cheeks. He opened his eyes slowly when the feeling stopped.

“That,” Michael’s deadly voice whispered “is a warning.”

Frankie stepped back. He glanced at himself in a mirror near his mother’s bedroom door. There were black X’s painted over both his eyes as though he were a dead cartoon character. He almost laughed, but quickly remembered Michael’s warning. Back to the couch he went, like a dog with his tail between his legs.

The only sound in the living room from that point on was the turn of pages from Frankie’s book and the soft clinking of Michael’s paintbrush as he swirled it around in water. 

Frankie was uncomfortable with the total silence at first, but after a while he enjoyed it. His mother had put the twins to bed early and ran off to “see a movie with a friend.” She   
always became secretive and smiling when she went on dates. Frankie didn’t mind her dating. In fact, he liked it when she did. But his mom still never said the word “date” around her kids.

Twenty serene minutes went by before the front door swung open and Patrick’s voice broke the fragile quietness. 

“Hey Frankie, hey Michael! I’m so starving. Do you guys want to order a pizza or something?” 

Michael whipped around towards Patrick with a hateful hiss. He threw his dripping paintbrush with impressive speed and force at the interruption. 

Pat caught the brush by the handle before even a speck of green acrylic paint landed on the floor or his white jeans.

“What a catch!” Frankie clapped his hands, thrilled.

Patrick curtsied. Michael took a deep breath. His face gradually relaxed.

“So you guys think? Pizza? Chinese? Oh, there’s this new Greek place on 10th street. My father took his tart bitch girlfriend to it on Tuesday and wouldn’t shut up about the baklava.” Pat rambled on as he walked across the room. He handed the paintbrush back to Michael.

“It’s nine at night, Pat. I don’t think they will be many restaurants still open.” Frankie pointed out.

“We can go to Patrick’s house.” Michael suggested. He put his paintbrush back in it’s water glass. He gave his painting one more contemplative look before shaking his head and giving up for the night. “I’ll make something for you guys there.”

Frankie drove faster than usual but by the time they reached the Dizco mansion, his stomach seemed to be eating itself. Thankfully whatever it was that Michael cooked for his friends was fast and filling. The meal was some sort of pork and egg dish with plenty of different cheese melted on top the meat. Michael told him the name of the dish in Italian but Frankie had already chewed through half his plate by that time.

Red wine accompanied the food, straight from Albert Dizco’s special reserve collection as usual.

“This Bordeaux is from my parent’s wedding.” Pat explained as he skipped around his family’s huge dining table to pour the dark liquid into Frankie’s glass, then Michael’s then his own. “They purchased twenty bottles that day so they could drink a bottle every anniversary devisable by five. You know, like the five year mark, the ten year mark, and so on.”  
Patrick set the bottle down in front of his plate. The three teens were all seated at the end of the oblong table. Frankie had mentioned if they all sat at different ends, they might not be able to hear each other.

“They made it to the fifteen year mark just last year.” Patrick continued. He spun the wine bottle around to look at the label. “Maybe this one was supposed to be for year twenty.” He smiled. “Thank God, they’re separated now. I don’t think I could bear hearing my father drunkenly describe their wedding yet again. ‘Oh, well imagine, as I’m pacing the paces in a church corridor…’ He always tells it exactly the same way, like a memorized monologue.” 

“My parents got married on the beach.” Frankie said. He scraped his fork to gather just a bit more of the creamy sauce from his dinner. “My mom’s best friend from college was the officiate.”

Michael added, “I don’t think my parents ever got married.”

“I thought your mother was fond of marrying men?” Pat asked, genuinely confused. “She didn’t want to marry the father of her two sons?”

“She does,” Michael nodded. “And she always called him her husband. But I’ve never had the last name Webber, only Romanci. And that’s my mom’s maiden name.”

“Maybe she just never got around to changing her last name.” Frankie sipped his wine. It was very bitter.

Michael shrugged as though he didn’t care either way.

“I like Romanci better anyway. It suits you.” Patrick said. 

Michael smiled and drank deeply from his glass.

Frankie reached for his glass. Condensation had appeared quickly and without notice on the crystal. As Frankie lightly gripped the glass, it slipped from his hand just like the first time he’d eaten dinner at the Dizco table. Red wine gushed out and spread on the white tablecloth, a purple, bloody stain.

“Fuck! Again?” Frankie gasped. He dabbed at the wet spot with his napkin.

Michael and Patrick both began laughing at him.

“Jesus, Frankie. You literally can’t hold your alcohol.” Michael’s wine glossed lips pulled back in a teasing grin.

“These damn, stupid crystal glasses.” Patrick tried to catch his breath from laughing. He pushed back in his chair and climbed onto the table.

“Can someone in this world explain to me what the point of crystal glasses is?” Patrick asked, raising his voice as he stood above Frankie and the wine stain. His voice echoed off   
bare mansion walls.

“Decoration?” Frankie supplied, nervously.

“Exactly.” Patrick said. With one swift movement of his foot, he sent the crystal to the ground, smashing into a pile of broken glass. “They’re not functional. They’re not unique. They have no character whatsoever.”

There was another sound of crashing as Michael took his glass and purposely dropped it to the floor.

“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Romanci.” Patrick bowed to him and leapt off the table. “Come on. This place is depressing even with good company. Let’s grab some snacks and wine and cigarettes and go to Death Valley.” 

The Phoenix cemetery closes at ten and it was already midnight by the time the teens arrived. Frankie helped Patrick and Michael to climb over the wire fence, then pulled himself up and over.

By the mausoleum door, Patrick set about lighting the three white candles he had tucked in his bag. Michael and Frankie took out the new bottle of wine and plastic cups. As soon as everything was unpacked, Michael lit himself one of Pat’s father’s cigars.

“Are you two worried about finals next week?” Frankie asked after tearing his stare away from the clear, starry nighttime sky.

“Only algebra.” Patrick admitted. “Darpin says if my final is above a 93%, she’ll recommend me for the honors trigonometry class. The one for seniors.”

Michael frowned and Frankie knew he was wondering why Pat wanted to be in the honors math class at all. “I’m only worried about creative writing. I’m turning in a collection of poetry about revenge but I haven’t decided what order to put them in yet. I’m going to figure it out tomorrow.”

“I guess I’m not that worried about finals.” Frankie said. It was the truth. He knew he could only do his best and that was it. He never studied all that hard for tests and always ended up with passing grades, at least. “I think I might join jazz band next year.”

Pat wrinkled his nose, “Just don’t let it interfere with our musicals.”

“So, Frankie,” Michael suddenly said. He looked up from his cigar, his smile slow and small. “You’ve had a whole school year to decide.”

“Decide what?” Frankie’s stomach was uneasy as he saw the mischievous smile on Michael’s face.

Michael paused for dramatic effect and asked, “Do you like Trinity high school?”

Relief flooded through him and Frankie burst into laughter. After a minute, he composed himself and looked at Patrick and Michael, both waiting for a response. He grinned. “The food is pretty much the same as any school… the learning material is ehhh… But, I think I’ve grown to like the students here.”

Frankie smiled at Pat, whose grin was shining and sparkling as usual. He reached over to squeeze Michael’s hand. Michael squeezed his back.

“Yes!” Patrick shouted, raising his cup and drinking. “Fallen ones, vagabonds, ne’er-do-wells, insufferable bastards!”

“Generation Nothing.” Michael joined.

“Young blood, vintage misery. We’ll take the world back from the heart-attacked, one maniac at a time, we will take it back.” Frankie looked at up the sky again. He could feel a swelling in his heart, a tight happiness that barely fit in his whole body. There was just one week of school left then they’d be free for the summer. Frankie had a complete sense of peace, and nothing was wrong in that exact moment.

In the early morning, Frankie was jarred awake.

It wasn’t a nightmare, no. Frankie’s terrible dreams had been slowly dwindling in number since he told Michael about his teacher. And if he woke from a dream, Michael would always be there to comfort him back to sleep.

Michael wasn’t next to him in his bed tonight. Patrick was sleeping in the living room but Michael had rushed back home after the cemetery, stuttering excitedly about how a poem he was inspired to write.

Frankie sat up in bed. He listened closely. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence and the distance sound of his mother’s snoring. 

A sudden yell made Frankie flinch. It was female, and an angry sort of desperate. Frankie slid out of bed and crept to the living room. He past Pat, curled up and fast asleep on the couch, and walked all the way to the front door.

He opened the door as quietly as he could and waited for more sounds.

“Don’t, please! Don’t leave me!”

The door to Michael’s home wrenched open. Alexander stumbled out, stomping bare feet down the couple steps. Anita Romanci followed in nothing but boxer shorts and a tank top.

“Alexander! Alexander, listen to me, baby!” Michael’s mother had black makeup smeared down her cheeks as she sobbed. Frankie could see from where he stood that her hair had once been in a ponytail, but only a single lock of black hair was still tied up.

Alexander said nothing in response. He staggered over to the truck, pulled open the door.

“You can’t! You can’t!” Anita sobbed, then quieted. She switched moods also instantly. “You fucker!” She spat. “Who do you think you are? You’re just gonna leave? You’re just gonna leave me alone!?” She grabbed onto the door of the truck.

“What’s going on?” Patrick was suddenly whispering in Frankie’s ear. 

Frankie shook his head slowly. He didn’t said anything back.

With one outstretched arm, Alexander sent Anita flying to the grass. He got in the car as she scrambled up again. “You’re my husband!” she cried out.

Alexander began pulling out of the driveway. 

Michael’s mother kicked her naked feet into the concrete of the driveway but didn’t follow the car. “You’re my husband! Don’t leave! I’ll kill myself, Alexander! I’ll die!”  
Alexander grunted something Frankie couldn’t hear. Next to him, Patrick was frozen and not breathing.

“I’ll kill myself! No one cares! Come back, Alexander. Please!” Anita pressed hands into her face. Tears dripped down, wetting the driveway.

The truck drove down the street and out of sight.

Anita stood crying loudly. She was moaning and mumbling things in her native language. When her tears dried up, Frankie recognized a look of pure rage pass her delicate face. 

It was a look many times seen on Michael, but on his mother, it seemed deeper, more illogical. If Michael was a sniper bullet, Anita was a nuclear bomb.

She cursed out and ran back to the house. The door slammed and shook the windows of the house. Frankie’s gut twisted. His hands were shaking. Inside the Romanci home, was more screaming, more cursing. 

“Frankie,” Patrick was whimpering. “Frankie, you don’t think Michael’s mom would hurt him, right? I mean, she’s really drunk and angry. Should we call the police?”

Frankie could barely understand what Patrick was saying. He jumped out of the house and started running towards Michael’s home, wet grass licking his feet and the chilly spring air going right through his pajamas. 

“Wait!” Patrick was sprinting next to him.

As they crossed the Romanci lawn, a gun shot rang out. The sound cut through the morning peace, waking everyone around it.

Frankie grabbed the door knob and whipped around.

“Call 9-1-1. Don’t come inside.” Without another word, Frankie shoved Patrick back. His friend tumbled down the concrete stairs.

Frankie opened the door and shut it behind him.

“Michael,” Frankie whispered. He stood still, back to the door and surveyed the scene.

Anita Romanci was standing in the middle of the room. She looked twice as shambled up close. She was holding a gun with two jerking hands. Her son was on the floor, on his   
knees as though he had tried to duck the shot. He was pressed to a wall that had a single bullet ripped through it. Michael wasn’t hurt, not yet.

“Michael,” Frankie said again, even softer this time. He was sure no one could hear him.

“Go away! Go AWAY!” Anita shrieked. She waved the gun around to him. It was like the gun was controlling her. She had no power over it.

“Ms. Romanci?” Frankie reached down for any sense of calm he could. “Do you remember me? I’m Michael’s friend-”

“Shut up! SHUT UP!”

Frankie inched closer to Michael. He didn’t know why. There was no visible exit by him. But Frankie moved to him, regardless.

“Frankie,” Michael whispered. He was crying and trembling. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Frankie said. He was looking at Anita when he said it. “It’s gonna be okay, Anita.”

“No,” Ms. Romanci shut her eyes, tightly. “NO!” She spat again and pointed the gun towards her son again. “He left. My husband. He left! You make all my husbands leave me! You horrible fucking child! You made Bill leave, you made Alexander leave, you made Danny fucking leave! Why? Why do you hate me?” 

“Ms. Romanci, please,” Frankie was almost to Michael. If he hadn’t been staring at the gun so intently, he would have heard the police sirens outside.

“You’re going to fucking pay!”

Frankie dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Michael. Anita pulled the trigger.


	20. We Don’t Know When to Quit

Scenes and words. People’s face, echoes. Things passed by so smoothly, Frankie couldn’t grab on if he tried. He thought he might have seen his mother’s face, or maybe it was Patrick. He was at the bottom of a valley, desert sky open and broad above him. It dipped down. He lifted his hand to touch it. He needed to touch that crystal blue.

Frankie’s eyes opened. He blinked and took a breath.

“Michael?” His voice was hoarse. Grabbing a glass of what he assumed was water on the hospital nightstand, he called out again. “Patrick? Mom?”

The door to the small room swung open. Patrick walked through, stopping in his track when his eyes fixed on Frankie.

Pat gasped and grinned. “Frankie!”

Frankie braced himself as his friend raced towards the bed on which he lay. Pat leaned over and half-fell, half-hugged him. Frankie felt a tight, distance pain in his shoulder.

“Hey, what’s up?” 

“”Hey, what’s up’?” Patrick stood back to shake his head and scowl playfully at him. “That’s all you have to say?”

Frankie cleared his throat again. “I guess so… Where is everyone? What happened?”

Pat frowned. “Frankie, Michael is out of his mind, freaking out about you. Your mom keeps taking him to walk around the hospital to calm down.”

“Oh…” Frankie shut his eyes. He saw flashes of Anita, the gun. He could feel Michael in his arms, shaking. They were both shaking. The next thing he could remember was   
the desert sky.

“Anita was arrested.”

Frankie looked at Patrick. It seemed logical someone like Anita Romanci, who tried to kill her son and shot at his boyfriend would be put in prison. But hearing it out loud   
struck a chord of worry in him. 

“The police said she was super fucked up on cocaine.” Patrick voice was hushed. The tone he only reserved for shit-talking and rumor-spreading. But the shining look in his   
eyes wasn’t there. His face was dead serious.

“Cocaine?” Frankie found himself whispering as well.

Pat nodded. “Alexander was selling. The police are looking for him too.”

Shutting his eyes again, Frankie found himself filled with questions. He tried to clear his mind, to pick just one to ask. Before he could speak, the door opened again.

“Frankie!” His mother’s face lit up. She grinned and placed a plain cup of coffee on the table before hugging her son.

“Hey, mom.” Frankie tried hugging her back but pain shot through his left shoulder when he lifted it.

“Don’t move that arm, kid. You’re recovering from a major surgery.” His mom put her warm hands on Frankie’s cheeks. She kissed his forehead.

When his mother stepped aside Frankie could see Michael standing alone at the doorway.

Frankie smiled and waited for him to come over. When he didn’t, Frankie’s smile faded.

“Michael…?”

Michael wrapped his arms around himself and looked away. “I’m sorry,” His voice was choked and quiet.

“Sorry?” Frankie shook his head, the motion sending sparks of pain down. “Michael, come here.”

Michael stepped away until his back hit the wall. “I’m sorry, Frankie.” When he blinked silent tears rolled down his face.

“Please, Michael?” Frankie whispered. He opened his sore arms.

Finally, Michael ran over across the room and into his arms, crying and holding onto to him tightly. Frankie’s mother stroked Michael’s back.

“You didn’t get hurt, did you?” Frankie asked him. He pressed his face against Michael’s, sharing the wet feeling of tears.

“No,” Michael sobbed. “Shut up.”

Frankie laughed and squeezed him tighter. 

“Michael’s been staying at our house the past couple days, Frankie. I figured you wouldn’t mind.” Trisha said. “Patrick too actually.”

Pat grinned and shrugged. “I couldn’t go to my house. Not with my dad all huffed up and important-feeling over paying your medical bills.”

“Your dad paid my medical bills?” Frankie repeated in surprise.

“Yeah,” Pat was smiling and rolling his baby blues. “I mean, it was nice of him and all but he thinks he’s Ghandi now, seriously. Always asking how you’re doing and reminding everyone how big of a check he had to write.”

Frankie grinned. He pet Michael’s hair as he spoke. “Well, tell him I said thanks.”

Mrs. Owens-Bard continued what she was saying. “Michael’s been staying with us… I’ve been deemed a temporary guardian. But the lawyer I spoke with said there’s no reason to apply as a permanent foster mother because Michael is turning sixteen in November and when that happens, he can be legally emancipated.”

“And he can still live with us after that, right?” Frankie felt Michael release him of his death grip and stand up.

Trisha smiled, “Of course.”

“Yes!” Frankie threw a fist in the air. And then, “Ow!” He slowly put his arm down. “Michael, you can sleep in my room and I promise I won’t bother you when you’re trying to   
write or paint and I can clear out some of my dresser drawers so you can put your clothes in there.”

“Doesn’t this legally-speaking make you two brothers?” Patrick asked, and started laughing and holding his side. “Fucking sick.”

“Ahem, excuse me, gentlemen.” Frankie’s mother rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “My home is not your love pad. Michael will have his own room. We’ve all been pitching in to clear out the basement. Even Elisa and Oliver have been helping.”

“Oh,” Frankie grinned, flushing slightly.

Frankie had to stay in the hospital for so long; he began to imagine escaping through the large window in his room. Even though his wound was not considered severe, one bullet wound through the left shoulder, missing all vital organs. He still had to have emergency surgery to remove the bullet and he had to be monitored afterwards. Monitored for   
what, Frankie didn’t know.

Frankie spent his time watching horrible soap operas or the news on his tiny hospital TV. Michael and Patrick had to be in school during the day, taking finals. Frankie would have to come in during June to take them.

At long last, he was checked out, wheeled out the front doors in and dumped unceremoniously in his mother’s Ford. 

Under the cork tree is where Frankie chose to recuperate. 

He sat, back leaning on the rough bark. Michael was next to him, hunched over a notebook, pen in hand. Patrick was on the lawn, practicing the backflip Palmer had taught him how to do on the last day of school.

“Whoo-hoo!” Patrick sprung up once again. He stood very still, then flipped without warning, backwards and landed perfectly on the grass. “Golden skies, summer is here!”

Frankie sighed contently and looked up to the leaves of the cork tree. “It’s so nice out. I wish the sun weren’t going down.”

“The sun will be up again tomorrow.” Pat pointed out. He did his millionth backflip.

Frankie reached over and laced his hand with Michael’s. Michael smiled at him. It had taken a while but Frankie was beginning to feel Michael’s guilt wash away. He knew   
Michael would never totally believe Frankie getting shot wasn’t his fault. That was alright. Frankie knew things will never be perfect. That was okay with him.

Pat suddenly gasped.

“What?” Frankie jerked towards him, startled. “What is it?”

“We should go to New York!”

Frankie giggled despite himself. “Right now?”

“No, Frankie. Not right now.” Pat folded his arms over his chest. “Sometime in July, before school starts up again. We can take your mom and the twins. It’ll be great!”

“We can look at colleges.” Frankie said, nodding.

“And we can look at apartments.” Michael said. It was the first time he had spoken since he sat down with his notebook.

“What are you writing, Michael?” Pat asked, walking over to sit near his friends.

“Oh, uh,” Michael looked down at his paper. “It’s actually done. I was just spell-checking it…”

Frankie and Patrick waited patiently, twins grins gracing their faces.

“It’s a poem…”

They waited, still.

“It’s a poem I wrote a while ago. That night. After we came back from Death Valley.”

Patrick’s voice burst out of him. “Will you read it to us?”

Michael frowned and pressed the notebook to his chest. “No.”

“Oh, come on, Michael.” Frankie wrapped his arms around his boyfriend. “Pleeeease?” He leaned onto Michael under his weight nearly knocked him over.

“Ugh! Fine! You guys are so annoying!”

Michael scrambled to his feet while Pat and Frankie exchanged triumphant looks.

“Okay,” Michael took a breath. “Don’t laugh.”

Frankie and Patrick nodded.

“It doesn’t have a title yet, but, um, I dedicated it… to my best friend, Patrick Dizco and my boyfriend, Frankie Owens-Bard.” His pale face flushed deeply.

“Aw!” Patrick squeaked quietly. Frankie’s smile filled his body.

Michael inhaled and began reading.

“When I was a young boy,  
My father, took me into the city  
To see a marching band  
He said, "Son when you grow up, will you be the savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned?"  
He said, "Will you defeat them, your demons, and all the non-believers, the plans that they have made? Because one day, I'll leave you, a phantom, to lead you in the summer, to join the black parade."

Sometimes I get the feeling, she's watching over me  
And other times I feel like I should go  
And through it all, the rise and fall  
The bodies in the street  
And when you're gone we want you all to know

We'll carry on. We'll carry on  
And though you're dead and gone believe me  
Your memory will carry on  
We'll carry on  
Until my heart I can't contain it  
The anthem won't explain it

A world that sends you reeling from decimated dreams  
Your misery and hate will kill us all  
So paint it black and take it back  
Let’s shout it loud and clear  
Defiant to the end we hear the call  
To carry on

We'll carry on,  
And though your dead and gone believe me  
Your memory will carry on  
We'll carry on  
And though your broken and defeated  
Your weary widow marches on

And on we carry through the fears  
The disappointed faces of your peers  
Take a look at me 'cause I could not care at all  
Do or die  
You’ll never make me  
Because the world will never take my heart  
Go and try; you’ll never break me  
We want it all, we want to play this part  
I won’t explain, or say I’m sorry  
I’m unashamed, I’m gonna show my scars  
Give a cheer, for all the broken  
Listen here, because it’s who we are  
I'm just a man; I'm not a hero  
Just a boy, whose meant to sing this song  
I'm just a man; I'm not a hero  
I don’t care  
We'll carry on  
We'll carry on.”

Michael finished. He dropped his notebook from his face and locked eyes with his friends.

Patrick sniffed, and brushed away a happy tear. “I loved it.”

Frankie stood up and walked towards his boyfriend, “It’s beautiful, Michael. It’s perfect.”

Michael smiled and relief flooded his features.

“Oh you guys are just the fucking best!” Pat blubbered. He threw his skinny arms around the both of them and squeezed until Frankie could feel his eyes popping out of his head.

“Hey, kids!” Frankie’s mom popped her head out from the front door of the house. “Pizza’s done!”

Frankie caught a whiff of something burning from the kitchen. He laughed. “Awesome, mom. We’re coming.”

Frankie lead the way, his friends followed. The sun was still peeking out from the roof of the Owens-Bard home, setting the cork tree aglow in warm light.


	21. This Title is Too Long to not be the Epilogue

In the small, underground room of New York’s ‘House of Wolves’ art gallery, there stood a man staring with interest at the painting before him. The canvas showed a Bentley with three young passengers, an elaborate stormy sky and miles of desert before them.

“Pretty sweet, huh?” the man turned with a charming smile to the woman nearby. He crossed his leather-bound arms around him. 

“Hm?” the woman blinked a couple times.

“The painting? I like this one the best, I think. I mean... I like them all but…”

“Right, right. The… painting.” She replied, but still did not look in front of her to view it. Instead, the man realized, she was staring to the far left.

He followed her gaze and found himself looking at the artist of tonight’s gallery of paintings and sketches. A young man, new to New York’s art scene and already making quite an impression, named Michael Romanci. Romanci was leaning against the wall, talking to a possible buyer of his work. His eyes were dark and bored-looking, with just a hint of irritation.

The man, whose name happened to be Frankie Owens-Bard, grinned to himself.

“Hey, miss?”

The woman shook herself out of the trance. She gave Frankie eye-contact, at last.

“I heard,” Frankie gave the woman another wide smile. “that Michael Romanci is really into blondes. Like, he loves them.”

She brightened and reached up to touch her pale, yellow ponytail. “Really?”

“Yup,” Frankie nodded. He threaded a hand through his own golden hair. His old Stetson hat was hanging on the coat rack by the stairs. “Definitely.”

Quickly, as though Michael could leave the gallery at any minute, the woman situated her bra and smoothed her silk dress. She sauntered over to where the object of her affections was now arguing loudly with his buyer.

Frankie was filled with delight and just a bit of pity for the woman. He watched her as Michael narrowed his eyes and put his hands on his hips. She stumbled over her words   
and gestured, utterly clueless. Frankie could relate to the amount of confusion and fear in her eyes.

The chirping of Frankie’s phone interrupted the show. He pulled it out of his jean pocket and checked the new text.

‘Just landed at JKF! Meet me at luggage?’

Frankie frowned. He texted back, ‘Be there soon. Finishing up at Michael’s show.’ And put the cell away.

After jogging across the room, and past both the rejected girl and the insulted art buyer, Frankie slide up behind Michael. He tugged lightly at his boyfriend’s black hair. It was now just long enough to be French-braided, which Michael learned how to do from Frankie’s mother the last time she visited.

“Hey,” 

“Hey, Frankie” Michael’s annoyed expression washed away. He smiled.

“We gotta go. Can Erica take care of things for the rest of the night?”

Michael looked over to the frantic older Asian woman, running from potential buyer to potential buyer, trying to repair the damage done by the unpleasant artist.

“Yeah,” he took Frankie’s arm and they headed towards the exit. “She won’t mind selling paintings to people who only care about the look and not the meaning.” Michael’s   
rare smile twisted back into a sneer. “These people.”

JFK was crowed as usual. People ran every which way, like panicked ants without a queen. Frankie and Michael first headed to the arrival board, and then to baggage claim.

“We would’ve been here on time if we still had the Bentley,” Michael snipped under his breath.

Frankie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. In New York traffic? Besides we wouldn’t be able to afford our loft without the money from that dude who bought the Bentley. Or your studio.”

Michael mumbled under his breath. But Frankie knew he’d won. He always won the Bentley fight. A loft, a store, a studio, and college funds for the twins? It was worth the seediest, smelliest rides on the subway. They were even luckier to have done the transaction before Pat’s father cut him off.

The buzzer above the baggage claim sounded. A parade of brown and black suitcases floated past Frankie and Michael.

“That one is Patrick’s,” Frankie said, pointing as he spotted the lavender-colored bag. When the luggage made it’s way to them, Michael grabbed it, the weight of it nearly knocking him over.

“Man, where is he?” Frankie was staring down at the bag when suddenly, someone attached him from behind.

“Frankie! Michael!” Patrick Dizco’s grip squeezed the air from Frankie’s lungs like juice from a lemon. He managed to keep a hold of him with one arm as the other yanked Michael into the painful embrace.

“Pat…rick,” Frankie gasped and grinned. People were staring at them. “How was your flight?”

“Ugh!” Patrick released them. “Two words, Frankie - middle seat. Oh, and a third word -infant.” He shook his head and Frankie noticed his hairstyle was the same as it was nearly two years ago. Cut short on the sides and long on top, hair-sprayed into lazy backward style. Patrick had called it a high-fade something or other. 

“How was the Broadway tour?” Michael asked him. Frankie picked up the purple luggage as it seemed Patrick and Michael had no intention of doing so. The group began walking towards the exit where they could more easily catch a cab.

Patrick looked at the ground for a moment than each of his friends individually. “I missed you guys.”

Michael beamed happily. 

Frankie smiled. “We missed you too. Diva Dizco.” He attempted to pat his hand on Patrick’s poofed up hair.

Pat ducked quickly and in the same motion swatted Frankie’s arm. “Jesus, Frankie. Do you have any idea how long it take to get my hair right these days? And on a plane too? Fuck, I could kill you, really. Now take me to dinner. I’m broke and starving.”

Outside the autumn-almost-winter wind chilled through Frankie’s jacket. He concealed his shivering, not wanting to give Michael the satisfaction. He had told Frankie to bring a heavier coat that morning.

“So,” Frankie began. He led his friends to the first waiting taxis. The driver popped the truck but didn’t offer to help. “Pat, you didn’t say how Broadway was. It was everything you wanted, right? I’ll bet those Jersey Boys songs got really annoying after a while.”

“They did,” Pat replied, curtly. “They did after about three shows.” He breathed a long, heavy sigh. “And we did thirty.”

Frankie and Michael exchanged looks. They got into the cab and gave the driver directions to the best seafood place in Brooklyn.

Michael cleared his throat after a moment.”Well, did it, like, suck?”

“Yes!” Patrick exploded, finally. He whipped his head to stare at them. “It sucked! I was always tired and always sore and I couldn’t go out and do anything! I was on vocal rest constantly so I couldn’t even chat with the other actors and like I’d fucking want to anyway. Michael, Frankie. They hated me! Broadway actors all stick together and they fucking hated that I was new and that I got such a good part in the show. Even the cute ones had the personalities of hand sanitizers. Fuck! I am never doing Broadway again.”

“Oh, wow,” Frankie raised his eyebrows. “Never? I thought Broadway was your dream?”

Michael cut in, jumping headfirst into Patrick’s rant. “Fuck them then! Those cunts don’t know anything about art. All they know is memorized lines and fucking tap-dancing. They’re just fucking mad that they got trapped doing bad art and since you’re new and shit and like, better than them anyway, they’re jealous that you have a chance to do better art. Real art.”

“I know!” Pat yelled. The cab driver began rolling up the divider.

Frankie grinned to himself. He missed Patrick. Michael didn’t say anything but he had been testier without their old friend. Calmer, but testier.

“Never again.” Patrick shook his head, “Never. I’m going to ask Romeo and Adella if I can come back to their theater. We were such a great team. Are they still doing the mime burlesque?”

“Nah,” Frankie said. “We saw a show a couple days ago. They’re doing a series of ballet shows but, um, with fire. It looked dangerous.”

“They’d let you back in a heartbeat. Adella was complaining that their dancers would complain and quit because of the scars the burns leave.” Michael added.

Patrick’s excited grin took over his face. “Anyway, enough about me. I know your art is selling well, Michael. Frankie, what about the record store?”

“It’s going really well. I just hired two more people. I promoted Sunshine to manager so that I don’t have to be there on Saturdays anymore.”

“Sunshine,” Patrick tapped a finger on the seat of cab. “Is that a boy or a girl, I forgot.”

“Oh, they’re like, doing the gender neutral thing.”

“Huh,”

“Yeah, I have them write their pronoun preference on the chalkboard everyday so I don’t screw it up. It changes all the time.”

The taxi pulled over on the side of the street. 

“Sasha’s Seafood,” the driver announced. He turned in his seat and held out a hand. Frankie paid him in cash.

“Oh, I almost forgot to ask, you guys.” Pat said as they got out of the car.

“What is it?” Michael asked.

“Can I live with you?”

Frankie chuckled, lightly. “Of course, Pat. We already old you, you could stay over our place.”

Patrick grinned again and clapped his hands. “No, I meant like, can I live with you. Permanently. I can be your house pet.” 

Michael raised an eyebrows and looked at Frankie for his opinion.

“Come onnnn! Your loft is within walking distance of the theater and I’m not going to find a better place on that street! You have an extra bedroom!”

Frankie rubbed his chin and contemplated the arrangement, “Hmmmmm,”

“Pleaseeee?” Pat’s baby blues became big and tearful.

“Alright, fine.”

“Yes!” Patrick thrust a fist towards the sky and turned to enter the restaurant. “Also, I called Francesca on the plane and gave her your address. She’ll be coming to my room at about midnight. And Jackson. He’ll be over tomorrow.”

Michael rolled his eyes and scoffed disgustedly. He took Frankie’s hand and threaded his fingers between Frankie’s.

Frankie squeezed his boyfriend’s hand and watched as Patrick flirted with the hostess for a window seat. Two years and Pat was finally back. Michael was back to normal and   
Christmas was fast approaching. Things were looking up once again.


End file.
